TO A GROVE OF SILVER BIRCHES
Good morning, lovely ladies! I've never seen
You half so fair,—I swear;
How beautiful your gowns of apple-green!
And the ribbons in your hair!
You half so fair,—I swear;
How beautiful your gowns of apple-green!
And the ribbons in your hair!
What rapture do you await? What coming swain?
Such rustling of petticoats!
Such wagging of heads and prinking in the rain!
Such fluttering at your throats!
Such rustling of petticoats!
Such wagging of heads and prinking in the rain!
Such fluttering at your throats!
Dear winsome vestals, your flurry is no whim.
I know your sly design;
And why the sap goes pulsing up each limb
Sparkling as apple wine.
I know your sly design;
And why the sap goes pulsing up each limb
Sparkling as apple wine.
O ladies, trick you in your gala-best;
For out of the ardent South,
Young April comes with a passion in his breast,
And a kiss upon his mouth.
For out of the ardent South,
Young April comes with a passion in his breast,
And a kiss upon his mouth.
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