The Measure
BETWEEN the pansies and the rye
Flutters my purple butterfly;
Between her white brow and her chin,
Does Love his fairy wake begin:
By poppy-cups and drifts of heather,
Dances the sun and she together.
But o’er the scarlet of her mouth
Whence those entreated words come forth,
Love hovers all the livelong day,
And cannot, through its spell, away;
But there, where he was born, must die
Between the pansies and the rye.
Herbert P. Horne.