Her loveliest bud of all.
And tender to touch, and gracious,
And pure as the moon’s pure shine,
The full rose paled and was perfect,—
For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine!
A RHYME OF ROBIN PUCK
Howsoe’er the tale be spread,
Puck, the pranksome, is not dead.
At such tidings of mishap,
Any breeze-blown columbine