 | [Impromptu, in] The Mayflower for MDCCCXLVIII |  |
229
IMPROMPTU.
Ah, Blanche, I care not what they say of Flora—
Those musty pedants all begrimed with ink so—
The flowers ne'er found their priestess and adorer
Till thou and I were in the fields to think so!
Those musty pedants all begrimed with ink so—
The flowers ne'er found their priestess and adorer
Till thou and I were in the fields to think so!
230
Talk they of “time?” Who “notes” it more than we do,
When blowing “four-o-clocks” whole days together?
And our sweet learning, like “the busy bee,” do
We not treasure, love, for life's cold winter weather?
When blowing “four-o-clocks” whole days together?
And our sweet learning, like “the busy bee,” do
We not treasure, love, for life's cold winter weather?
Let the vile crowd then “improve each shining hour,”
Wringing earth's dross from hardy hands that till it;
I'll “gather honey from each opening flower”
While Blanche's lips are near me to distil it!
Wringing earth's dross from hardy hands that till it;
I'll “gather honey from each opening flower”
While Blanche's lips are near me to distil it!
| [Impromptu, in] The Mayflower for MDCCCXLVIII | |