The season mirrors in its mien
And in its tom-boy etiquette,
Maid Mignonette, my Mignonette.
When bare-feet lisp along the path,
And boys and jays go whistling by,
And girls and thrushes coyly cry
Their fine joys through the aftermath—
Then laid ghosts know their amulet
Which fickle siren mem'ry hath;
So laughing comes that sad coquette,