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.