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