In the Shrubbery

She picks at the petals of a fine crocus posy,

Watching them stir in the faint morning blow.

Her cherubic cheeks are so charmingly rosy,

Nestled in the halo of her sanctified glow.

Her pink dainty petticoat like fabrics of glee,

Twinkles so brightly in thin beams of light;

Swaying in winds as she runs through the lea.

She glides in the air like an ebullient kite.

With hair red as rust that flaps in the zephyr,

She giggles with joy and smiles with bliss,

For she is as warm as the late summer weather;

So callow, without ever knowing a kiss.

We meet in the shrubbery, away from the sun,

Knowing so well what our youthful hearts feel.

And into the woodlands, together we run,

With hysterical ardour and such jovial zeal.