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TO SIGISMOND.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

WHEN fields are green and days are fair,

And hearts respond,

I'll make a posy rich and rare

For Sigismond.

No artificial growth of flowers

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Shall find a place

In that bouquet; but woody bowers

O'er Nature's face

And every broad and sunny mead

Shall give to me

Fresh blooms to satisfy my need,

For love of thee.

The modest blooms of early prime

Become thee best;

The arbute, springing ere its time,

By Phoebus pressed,

The simple bluet shall be there,

And violet chaste,

To deck thy wealth of golden hair

And gird thy waist.

Nay, but the rarest and most sweet

Thy heart shall deck:

I'll cast the rest before thy feet,

And little reck.

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