You may prick me with a thistle, if you ever hear me whistle How my brooding mate, whose weariness my carols sweet dispel, All between the clouds and clover, appleblossoms drooping over, Twitters low that I must never, never, never, never tell. Oh, I swear no closer fellow stains his bill in cherries mellow. Tra la la! and tirra lirra! I'm the jauntiest sentinel, Perched beside my jewel-casket, where lie hidden - don't you ask it, For of those three eggs I'll never, never, never, never tell. Chirp ! chirp ! chirp ! alack! for pity! Who hath marred my merry ditty? Who hath stirred the scented petals, peeping in where robins dwell? Oh, my mate! May Heaven defend her! Little maidens' hearts are tender, And I never, never, never, never, never meant to tell. A SONG OF RICHES WHAT will you give to a barefoot lass, Morning with breath like wine? Wade, bare feet! In my wide morass Starry marigolds shine. Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass, Gift, a gift for a barefoot lass, Homeward the weary merchants pass, THE LITTLE KNIGHT IN GREEN WHAT fragrant-footed comer Who deems her warriors dead. Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers, And prick the frozen ground. Before the White Host harm her, We'll hurry to her aid; And every tiny blade The life-blood of the frost, Till from their king the order ring: "Fall back! the day is lost." Now shame to knighthood, brothers ! My crown of sunshine gain? In me my queen shall find, I ween, To battle! Ho! King Winter I stagger back. I yield - alack! Woe worth the chance for doughtiest lance Last hope my heart gives over. But hark! a shout of cheer! My brothers leave their slumbers The day's our own; but, overthrown, I kiss her feet and deem it sweet |