A light wind chased her on the wing,
And in the chase grew wild,
As close as might be would he cling
About the darling child.
But light as any wind that blows,
So fleetly did she stir,
The flower she touch'd on, dipt and rose,
And turned to look at her.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
From "The Talking Oak."
Nikolina
O tell me, little children, have you seen her—
The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina?
O, her eyes are blue as cornflow'rs mid the corn,
And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn!
Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her,
As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller,
Breaking off their scarlet cups for you,
With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue.
In her little garden many a flower is growing—
Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing
But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay
Is sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they.
Celia Thaxter.