“She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;”
I'm Wanda born
Of the mirthful morn
So I heard the red-buds whisper
To the forest beech,
Tho I know that each
Is but a gossipy lisper.
I taunt the brook
With his hair outshook
O'er the weir so cool and mossy,
And mock the crow
As he peers below
With a caw that's vain and saucy.
Where the wahoo reds
And the sumac spreads
Tall plumes o'er the purple privet,
I beg a kiss
Of the wind, tho I wis
Right well he never will give it.
I hide in the nook
And sunbeams look
For me everywhere, like fairies.
Then out I glide
By the gray deer's side —
Ha, ha, but he never tarries!
Then I fright the hare
From his turfy lair
And after him send a volley
Of song that stops
Him under the copse
In wonderment at my folly.
And Autumn cries
“Be sad!” or sighs
Thro her nun lips palely pouting.
But then I leap
To the woods and keep
It wild with gleeing and shouting.
And when the sun
Has almost spun
A path to his far Golconda,
I climb the hill
And listen, still,
While he calls me — “Wanda! Wanda!”
And then I go
To the valley — Oh,
My dreams are sweeter than dreaming!
All night I play
Over lands of Fay,
In delight that seems not seeming.