ON SOME BUTTERCUPS
A LITTLE way below her chin, Caught in her bosom's snowy hem, Some buttercups are fastened in, — Ah, how I envy them!
They do not miss their meadow place, Nor are they conscious that their skies Are not the heavens but her face, Her hair and tender eyes.
There, in the downy meshes pinned, Such sweet illusions haunt their rest, They think her breath the gentle wind And tremble on her breast;
As if, close to her heart, they heard A captive secret slip its cell, And with desire were sudden stirred To find a voice and tell.