Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist The sun goes down—a crimson wheel— And like an opal burns the sea That once was cold as steel. With pomp of purple, gold and red, Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn… But thou can’st never bring, O Sun, The Christmas that is gone!
Ah, who is this with twinkling feet,
With glad, young eyes and laughter sweet,
Who tosses back her strong, wild hair,
And saucy kisses flings to Care,
The while she laughs at her? Beware—
You who this winsome maiden meet!
She dances on a daisied throne,
About her waist a slender zone
Of dandelion’s gold; her eyes
Are softer than the summer skies,
And blue as violets; and lies
A tearful laughter in her tone.
She reaches dimpled arms and bare;
Her breath is sweet as wild-rose air;
She sighs, she smiles, she glances down,
Her brows meet in a sudden frown;
She laughs; then tears the violets drown—
If you should meet her—ah, beware!