Chanson

Thy hair is dyed with yellow gold
Of waving corn before the breeze.
Thine eyes are blue, the blue of old,
Of distant skies, of summer seas.

Dream laden poppies are thy lips,
And softer than the crimson rose,
Sweet as the dew the violet sips,
At even in the garden close.

The wind-flower's gracefulness is thine,
And thine the song the linnet sings,
The splendour of its swaying pine,
The mystery of its murmurings.

Thy face the petal of a rose,
Pale in a frame of woven gold,
Thy hands twin butterflies that close
Their wings in flowers upon the wold.

—W.E.L.