what's o'clock
149
A perfume of laughter which flutters and falls.
Lime-tree blossoms by turret stairs,
Laughter of flowers no more than theirs,
Sunny golden acacia blooms
Peeping into maidens' rooms,
Snap a spray and throw it over
The window-ledge to a waiting lover.
Mr. Keats comes to a stop
For the girls are over the Bonnet-shop
Leaning out like waving roses
Over a gate, most lovely of poses.
"Stay where you are, Girls," says Mr. Keats,
"You pose as the dryads of Teignmouth streets,
If Haydon were here he would jot you down
In a jiffy, with your hair wet and blown
And your little laughing faces like pansies."
"La! Mr. Keats, you do have such fancies."
"Fancies or no, I believe it clears.
Don't you feel the sun on your cheeks, my Dears?
Lime-tree blossoms by turret stairs,
Laughter of flowers no more than theirs,
Sunny golden acacia blooms
Peeping into maidens' rooms,
Snap a spray and throw it over
The window-ledge to a waiting lover.
Mr. Keats comes to a stop
For the girls are over the Bonnet-shop
Leaning out like waving roses
Over a gate, most lovely of poses.
"Stay where you are, Girls," says Mr. Keats,
"You pose as the dryads of Teignmouth streets,
If Haydon were here he would jot you down
In a jiffy, with your hair wet and blown
And your little laughing faces like pansies."
"La! Mr. Keats, you do have such fancies."
"Fancies or no, I believe it clears.
Don't you feel the sun on your cheeks, my Dears?
