I.
Gathering the buds of blue-eyed March,
Yonder I see her now:
The wild white violets at her feet,
The robin on the bough.
II.
I, too, must gather the blooms of spring;
Ah there! I have it now —
The look that lights, like sudden fire,
Her lip and cheek and brow.
III.
We are but gathering early flowers:
What think ye of it now,
Ye wild white violets at our feet,
Thou robin on the bough?