Bright was the sun, and from the shining cup
Of every flower a giddy scent flew up.
A kiss of fire, a deep voluptuous blush,
Burn’d on each pink and every rosy bush,
Ideal flames in dandelions glow’d
And lit each sorriest weed that edged our road.
But thou went’st on with even-stepping feet,
Clad in white satin, elegant and neat;
No child of Netcher’s brush more trim and nice,
And in thy stays a little heart of ice.