Oh, buy the baby’s blossoms if you meet her,
And stay with gentle looks and words to greet her;
She’ll gaze at you and smile and clasp your hand,
But not one word of yours can understand.
“Nikolina!” Swift she turns if any call her,
As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller;
Breaking off their flaming scarlet cups for you,
With spikes of slender larkspur, brightly blue.
In her little garden many a flower is growing—
Red, gold and purple, in the soft wind blowing;