The Summer Breezelet

'NOT now shall I sing of my sports in Spring, But the golden hours and gay,' Sang the Breeze, 'when I, a wild lover, hie With the Summer flowers to play. 'When I tiptoe go to the pansy, tho' She wag to and fro her head, She yet likes, I know, my kisses, and so Is kist on her low green bed. 'The rose newly born, albeit she's sworn Her lover shall mourn, I woo, And escape untorn by her pointed thorn, And never a scorn may rue. 'The pink she may shrink at my touch, I think, When her sweets I drink in glee, At the theft she'll wink, and a kindly blink, Will the sweet-mouth'd pink throw me. 'That snowy white may, the lily I sway, And when I essay, love stirred, In my own wild way with the saint to play, No cruel Nay is heard. 'When I in my zeal to the poppy steal, Tho' she'd fain conceal her flame, Yet she'll rock and reel with feeling I feel, Nor seek my zeal to blame. 'The woodbine too—nay, all blooms I woo In the fields or bowers, and O, And the mad pranks we will play, and the glee, And the golden hours, we know!'