With down upon his baby feet;
His little arms are changed to wings;
And sportive into air he springs.
Now through the meadows he meanders,
And now from flower to flower he wanders;
Hovers o’er this, on that alights,
Whose honied cup his lip invites.
The maidens think him what he seems,
Not one of aught deceptive dreams,
And eager in the chase they strive: