A RARE PICTOGRAPH 



The morn has come; 



The graceful lizard winds him in and out 



Among the knotted roots in quest of food; 



The agile worm with curious hoops 



Adorns the fallen tree; 



Late slumbering violets, awake! 



And dye your petals sweet, 



With purple shadows from the hills. 



O, wondrous moths, with dappled wings, 



Fly low, that we may picture forth 



Your charming form and flight; 



Gay dragon-fly, in gauzy shimmer-sheen, 



Dart not so swift above us, 



But pause the while we trace 



Upon this bough your lithe and slender shape. 



Now leaps my heart! for hither comes 

 The fairest form of all 

 The queen of morn and noon and eve; 

 Come, come, my love, sweet Pity-op; 

 How wide the space that lies between our hearts, 

 Though I with wings as swift as dragon-flies 

 Or thoughts of dinner close at hand, 

 Rush wildly to salute my love. 

 Come sit with me, sweet Ips-i-me, 

 Beneath this dainty twig of pine, 

 And such delight shall fill our hearts 

 That all the creeping world may go its way 

 So thou, my love, dost by me stay. 

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