What though a score of acorns drop
And squirrels' fur be red!
'Tis not so ruddy as thy top—
So scarlet as thy head.
O rarely blooms the Cypripe-
diúm upon its stalk;
And like a torch it shines to me
Adown the dark wood-walk.
O joy to pluck it from the ground,
To view the purple sac,
To touch the sessile stigma's round—
And shall I then turn back?
Picus Erytbrocephalus:
O black and shining is the log
That feeds the sumptuous weed,
Nor stone is found nor bedded log
Where foot may well proceed.
Midmost it glimmers in the mire
Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark,
Lighting, with phosphorescent fire,
The green umbrageous dark.
There while thy thirsty glances drink
The fair and baneful plant,
Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink
And eke thine either pant.
Pale Studént:
Give o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peckóre;
The bark upon the tree,
Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore
But peck and bore not me.
Full two long hours I've searched about
And 't would in sooth be rum,
If I should now go back without
The Cypripediúm.