HER FIRST SEASON

Cloud-like laces softly float Round a dainty snow-white throat— Fastened here and flutt’ring there With a careless cunning care; Blue-bells, blue as summer skies are. Or her own sweet sunny eyes are, Cluster close beneath her chin, As if love—and not a pin— Kept them fondly nestling in! Gown of some transparent thing, Like a dragonfly’s clear wing Full of whispers vague and sweet, Falls in white folds to her feet. Light as moss veils drape their roses, Round her flower-like form it closes— Every graceful curve it shows us. Silken mittens soft and quaint, Of a shade æsthetic, faint, Weave a jealous network o’er Two pink palms that I adore; And a musical mixed jangle Comes from bracelet and from bangle As it fetters each slim wrist (Made but to be clasped and kissed), With fantastic coil and twist. Hair a-ripple like ripe corn Wind-kissed on a summer morn. What, you say you see the glint Of a reaper’s blue scythe in’t? Nay, ’tis but a silver arrow Wand’ring through a golden furrow, Where the sun-shafts bore and burrow. Like a bright plumed bird is she, From the home-nest just set free; Knowing neither grief nor wrong, In her heart and lips a song. ’Tis not I would wish to make her Prim and drab-gown’d like a Quaker! All fair things are beauty’s dower— Doth not God’s hand paint the flower? (Youth is but a fleeting hour!)