Slowly reveal a fresh faintness a-flutter 

 White to the young grass and pink to the sky ? 

 O, then a low call to waking we utter, 

 * Bluth, lasses, apple-bluth spirts low and high.' 



Out, lasses, out, to the apple-garth hasten — 

 Nay, never tarry to net your glad hair — 

 Here are no lovers your kissed shoes to fasten 

 (O, for the days when girls' feet may go bare). 

 Over the dim lawn the May-rime yet lingers 

 PaUid and dark as the down of the dawn — 

 Gather your skirts in your delicate fingers. 

 Stoop as you run o'er the almond-hung lawn. 



Look through the trees ere dawn's twilight is over — 

 Lo, how the light boughs seem lost in the stars ; 

 Everywhere bluth the grey sky seems to cover, 

 Quivering and scented, new spring's kisses' scars. 

 Wet are the blossoms to wash your faint faces — 

 Bury your faces cheek-deep in their chill ; 

 Press the flushed petals and open your dresses, — 

 So — let them trickle your young breasts to thrill. 



Winter has wronged us of sunlight and sweetness. 

 We who so soon must be hid from the sun ; 

 Winter is on us as Summer's completeness 

 Faint-hearted drops down a tired world undone ; 

 Brief is the bloom-time as sleepy maids' laughter 

 WTio know not one bed-time 'tis Summer's last day. 

 Though from the heart of the rose they have quaffed 



her — 

 Come, lasses, come, ere our rose-world falls grey. 



GORDON BOTTOMLEY. 



48 



