A zephyr of flowers in the bright air straying;
A graceful child, as fresh as dawn,
Upon the greensward blithely playing;
Himself on the door-stone idly sitting,
A blonde-haired woman about him flitting.
She dreamily stands beside him there,
And deftly toys with his coal-black hair,
And hovers about him with her eyes,
And whispers to him, pleading-wise:
O Rob, why will you plague my heart? why will you try me so?