What fragrant-footed comer Is stepping o’er my head? Behold, my queen! the Summer! Who deems her warriors dead. Now rise, ye knights of many fights, From out your sleep profound! Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers, And prick the frozen ground. Before the White Host harm her, We ’ll hurry to her aid; We ’ll don our elfin armor, And every tiny blade Shall bear atop a dewy drop, The life-blood of the frost, Till from their king the order ring: “Fall back! the day is lost.” Now shame to knighthood, brothers! Must Summer plead in vain? And shall I wait till others My crown of sunshine gain? Alone this day I ’ll dare the fray, Alone the victory win; In me my queen shall find, I ween, A sturdy paladin. To battle! Ho! King Winter Hath rushed on me apace,— My fragile blade doth splinter Beneath his icy mace. I stagger back. I yield—alack! I fall. My senses pass. Woe worth the chance for doughtiest lance Of all the House of Grass! Last hope my heart gives over. But hark! a shout of cheer! Don Daisy and Count Clover, Sir Buttercup, are here! Behold! behold! with shield of gold Prince Dandelion comes. Lord Bumble-Bee beats valiantly His rolling battle-drums. My brothers leave their slumbers And lead the van of war; Before our swelling numbers The foes are driven far. The day’s our own; but, overthrown, A little Knight in green, I kiss her feet and deem it sweet To perish for my queen.
The Little Knight in Green
More from Poet
-
What fragrant-footed comer Is stepping o’er my head? Behold, my queen! the Summer! Who deems her warriors dead. Now rise, ye knights of many fights, From out your sleep profound! Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers, And prick the frozen ground. Before the White Host harm her, We ’...
-
What will you give to a barefoot lass, Morning with breath like wine? Wade, bare feet! In my wide morass Starry marigolds shine. Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass, With her laughing looks aglow! Run, bare feet! In my fragrant grass Golden buttercups blow. Gift, a gift for a barefoot...
-
’t is the blithest, bonniest weather for a bird to flirt a feather, For a bird to trill and warble, all his wee red breast a-swell. I ’ve a secret. You may listen till your blue eyes dance and glisten, Little maiden, but I ’ll never, never, never, never tell. You ’ll find no more wary piper...