The floral bandit

Beyond the town - oh far! beyond it

she walks - that lady - have you seen her?

that thief of spring, that floral bandit

who leaves the grass she walks on greener.

And she can sing - the blackbirds hear her -

those little coals with throats of flame -

and they can find, alighting near her,

no sweeter practice than her name.

What is her name? O ask the linnet,

for human tongue would strive in vain

to speak the buds uncrumpling in it,

and the small language of the rain.

Who is this lady? What is she?

the Sylvia all our swains adore?

Yes, she is that unchangingly,

but she is also something more.

For buds at best are little green

keys on an old thin clavichord,

that only has the one high tune -

that, since the first, all springs have heard.

And all first love with the same sighing

tunes, though more sweetly touched, has lingered,

as though he were forever trying

toccatas Purcell might have fingered.

But no one knows her range nor can

guess half the phrases of her fiddle,

the lady who fore ev'ry man

breaks off her music in the middle.