Home Links Nature, the gentlest mother Will there really be a morning? At half-past three a single bird The day came slow, till five o’clock The sun just touched the morning The robin is the one From cocoon forth a butterfly Before you thought of spring Whose are the little beds, I asked Pigmy seraphs gone astray To hear an oriole sing One of the ones that Midas touched

Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees’ exclusive coterie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek. Never such an ambuscade As of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid. I had rather wear her grace Than an earl’s distinguished face; I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter, Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee!