Samuel Alfred Beadle

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I sought her in the woodland
Where the dogwood blossoms blow,
And thought I had her cornered
Where the little rill doth flow,
Laughs and sings, laughs and sings,
Sweeping over golden sands,
Like a living thing
On burnished silver wings.

But the cunning elf escaped me,
And left me standing there,
Bewildered by the cadence
Of her music in the air;
In the air, in the air
The poesy of nature,
Struck by the feathered tribe,
Ran lyrical ev'rywhere.

Till fancy caught her smiling
In the budding of the trees,
Where tiny little leaflets
Unfolded to the breeze,
To the breeze, to the breeze,
When Flora came a-riding
A sunbeam for a steed,
Down the floral highways of the leas.

And the cunning elf flew onward,
With magical little wand
Painting up the butter cups
Beside her as she ran,
As she ran, as she ran;
Till her prancing steed stood still
Entangled in the snare
On my lady's cheeks of tan.

You cunning little elfin,
I have sought you ev'rywhere
To find you 'neath the tresses
Of a girl's disheveled hair;
Lady fair, graced and rare.
When you stoop to plant the rose
You but set its colors
In your cheeks, my lady fair.

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