The swing of a rope, or a bonnet blue,
And a bright little band on a dainty hand,
Where twinkles a stone of a ruby hue,
Are daring me climb to the highest limb,
Or to jump the brook in a wild-fire race,
I’m as free and as light as the tail of a kite,
And I’ve two pouting lips for a resting place.
A NOCTURNE.
How oft I feast with the dearest ones, now dead,
Or stroll the gardens through at night,