 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
149
SPRING.
The meads with green are garnished o'er,
The birds sing in the bowers,
And from the Broad Platte's further shore
We scent the budding flowers;
Fair Cherry creek runs swift and clear,
The merry woodchucks drum—
O, season of the poet dear!
The picnic days have come.
The birds sing in the bowers,
And from the Broad Platte's further shore
We scent the budding flowers;
Fair Cherry creek runs swift and clear,
The merry woodchucks drum—
O, season of the poet dear!
The picnic days have come.
The season of the year sublime,
When nature tunes her voice—
O happy vernal picnic time
When Sunday schools rejoice;
When little girls and boys go out
'Neath sylvan monarchs old,
And gaily dance and frisk about
And catch their deaths o' cold.
When nature tunes her voice—
O happy vernal picnic time
When Sunday schools rejoice;
When little girls and boys go out
'Neath sylvan monarchs old,
And gaily dance and frisk about
And catch their deaths o' cold.
When sandwiches and buns are ripe—
Croquet and other games,
When stomach aches of every stripe
Steal over youthful frames,
When Chloe guards with watchful eyes
Her lover—jealous maid!
When Daphnis sits on custard pies
And prones where kine have strayed.
Croquet and other games,
When stomach aches of every stripe
Steal over youthful frames,
When Chloe guards with watchful eyes
Her lover—jealous maid!
When Daphnis sits on custard pies
And prones where kine have strayed.
April 17th, 1882.
| A little book of tribune verse | |