Iv

Come where the dragonflies, a brassy blue, Flit round the wildwood streams, And, sucking at some horn of honey-dew, The wild-bee hums and dreams. Come where the butterfly waves wings of sleep, Gold-disked and mottled, over blossoms deep: Come where beneath the rustic bridge The creek-frog cries; Or in the shade the rainbowed midge, Above the emerald pools, with murmurings flies.