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The soft hues of the opal shine, 

 The sapphire bright and sunny, 



And now the topaz gleam is mine, 

 And now the chalcedony. 



The rich carnation of the rose 

 Shrinks, ere my love is spoken; 



The passion flower my wings unclose, 

 Blushes and dies heartbroken. 



Beneath the bower of lady fair, 

 A spell of charms I lend her, 



To shame the jealous solitaire, 



That eyes my spendthrift splendor 



To hover, hover, where the round 

 Red turnip-creeper listens; 



There's many a song of sweeter sound, 

 But never a song that glistens. 



But when the scarlet pimpernel, 

 With its unfailing warning, 



Shuts to the coming shower its bell, 

 Just opened at the morning; 



I drop my low sweet hover-song, 

 With which the air is humming, 



And darting upwards swift and strong, 

 To show that rain is coming, 



I dash down from that dizzy height, 

 With pinions loudly whirring; 



Till, with my headlong rushing flight, 

 I set the thicket stirring. 



And when the sun upon the shower 

 Shows but for one bright era 



The splendor of the jewel-flower, 

 The sun-dew on drosera, 



I glitter, glitter, all day long, 

 A little wingless wonder; 



And still will shine the hover-song 

 When dies the deafening thunder. 



Then wreathe ye vines that love her so, 

 A spell that naught may sever, 



Nor let the lovely prisoner go, 

 From that fair bower forever. 



