But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem;
They need no parasols, no galoshes;
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 snapt—(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)—