Wherever they choose they wander,
Spendthrift of color and scent—
Made but to riot and squander.
E’en to the court of the rose,
Their eager, loose tendrils outreaching;
Unable to guess at her pride,
Or to care for her thorn’s sharp teaching.
Yet such is their charm and delight,
One pauses, half ready to flout them;
For O, at the mid-summer’s height,