102
WHEN JONQUILS BLOOM.
Around the fairy's wildered head
The morning-glories idly swung
These painted new, those folded up,
On vine and wreath they hung,
With dainty tips of malachite,
With ribs of red or blue,
Gay parasols for little folk—
A thousand, lacking two.
All weary, worn, and in despair,
The troubled fairy wept,
Till, like a tiny globe of dew.
A tear-drop softly crept.
Down from her eyes of emerald
Over the robe she wore,
Then pattered in the red and blue
Which still the palette bore.
Then lo! a Tyrian royal hue
Of tears that day was born;
The Queen a purple shadow bore
Proudly the fête-day morn.
WHEN JONQUILS BLOOM.
"WHAT shall we wear when jonquils bloom
The hum of girlish chat
Came softly to the ingle nook
Where I a dreamer, sat
