Joseph Skipsey

The Summer Breezelet

‘NOT now shall I sing of my sports in Spring,
   But the golden hours and gay,’
Sang the Breeze, ‘when I, a wild lover, hie
   With the Summer flowers to play.
 
’When I tiptoe go to the pansy, tho’
   She wag to and fro her head,
She yet likes, I know, my kisses, and so
   Is kist on her low green bed.
 
‘The rose newly born, albeit she’s sworn
   Her lover shall mourn, I woo,
And escape untorn by her pointed thorn,
   And never a scorn may rue.
 
‘The pink she may shrink at my touch, I think,
   When her sweets I drink in glee,
At the theft she’ll wink, and a kindly blink,
   Will the sweet-mouth’d pink throw me.
 
‘That snowy white may, the lily I sway,
   And when I essay, love stirred,
In my own wild way with the saint to play,
   No cruel Nay is heard.
 
’When I in my zeal to the poppy steal,
   Tho’ she’d fain conceal her flame,
Yet she’ll rock and reel with feeling I feel,
   Nor seek my zeal to blame.
 
‘The woodbine too—nay, all blooms I woo
   In the fields or bowers, and O,
And the mad pranks we will play, and the glee,
   And the golden hours, we know!’
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...



Top