A FLOWER PIECE.
35
The tune to which the clouds and sunshine playO'er slopes of blushing clover—faint at first,With many a fluttered echo frolicking,It fell its windy way—then loitered down,With lingering cadence of a long delay,Lightly as in the tenderest deeps of evenThe yellow blossom of the new moon dropsBelow the west that waits it.Below the west that waits it.'Twas the voiceOf all the elves of all the flowers that blow,Flocking to find the Spring, who slumbered yet,Nursed by the blue-eyed April. Willow plumes,Harebell, and cowslip, and anemone;The silver cinquefoil, and the columbineThat bursts, a lance of hoarded light, from earth,And swings its red flame on the shining tip;The purple vetches, washed by salt sea sprays;The frail convolvulus, that, ere the yearIs at the flood, leagues with the building bird,
