They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather)
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms
And snapped—(it was perfectly charming weather)—
Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:
And Willie 'gan sing (O, his notes were fluty;
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged' sea)—
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty
Rhymes (better to put it) of 'ancientry':