Columbine in the Hills.

A carnival gladdens the hills in June, And Columbine waltzes a gypsy tune; Or deep in the pleasance, happily met, She whirls with a gay little pirouette, Where the long trees lean in a twilight trance, Dreaming her over the seas to France.

Or quiet under the aspen's shade, Misty-eyed little pensive maid, Musing under the Great Steep's tree, Is it for Pierrot?—where is he?

A flutter of petticoats, buff and blue, Sashes and streamers and holiday tire, Columbine trips her a measure for you, Gayest heart of the waltzing choir. Under the pines I saw her dance, Lilting a gay little tune of France.