(O, for the days when girls' feet may go bare).
O'er the dim lawn the may-rime yet lingers,
Pallid and dark as the down of the dawn—
Gather your skirts in your delicate fingers,
Stoop as you run o'er the almond-hung lawn.
Look through the trees ere dawn's twilight is over—
Lo, how the light boughs seem lost in the stars;
Everywhere bluth the grey sky seems to cover
Quivering and scented, new spring's kisses' scars.
Wet are the blossoms to wash your faint faces—