And so these old bucolics ripped poor Tom fore and aft;
They sneered and jeered and pitied, and chaffed and leered and laughed.
His quiet little “night-caps” grew to a mighty stream,
A riotous, raw revel, a Bacchanalian scream,
Now to the mighty truth, then, of all that canard crew,
There wouldn’t be a feather left if each one had his due.
THE SPRING VIOLET
Nestling in sun-lit valley;
Dew-kissed and petaled so rare;