THROUGH all the happy summer-time
Your fancy follows me,
As lightly as the thistle-down
Comes floating out to sea.
Frailer than any flower that grows
Beside the changing tide,
It braves the waters carelessly,
Where I, in danger, ride.
Oh bid them both fly home again,
Such fair and fragile things,
Lest I may strive to capture them,
To cheer my wanderings.