Dorothy is debonair;
Little count hath she or care,
Sunshine in her heart and hair.
DAFFODILS
Oh, wild is the daffodils’ dance
To the tune that the March pipes blow,
Heads a-tossing—lances crossing,
Curtsies sweeping and low.
Like waves in a flaming sunset
They tumble, and twist, and turn,
What tho’ from its slender pillar
Droppeth one golden urn?
Short-lived is their joy and reckless,
Never a pause for breath.
Ah, well!—are we too not whirling
As blind, in our “dance of death”?
THE BLACKBIRD
When baby buds begin to shoot
Then hey! the blackbird’s golden flute;
All steeped in love seems every note
Let loose from his mellifluous throat.
No wild rhapsodic bursts proclaim
What rapture thrills his tiny frame,
His heart is like a brimming cup,
Where pearls of joy keep bubbling up.
The lark like some delirious thing
At heaven’s far gate may soar and sing,
But oh, methinks the blackbird brings
Heaven down to earth what time he sings!