But the day before, he had entered my bower,
And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,
And bore off a letter that lay unread,
’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,
To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheek
And a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,
Received the gift, and bounded on
As wild, and free, as a forest fawn,
To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,
Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.