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.