"FAIR Jennie Bell, what are you seeking?
And why are you bending your head
As you slowly walk over the highway?"
"Just seeking luck-clover," she said.
"Then what will you do with it, Jennie,
When found, the small treasure you seek?"
"Ah, a clover, four-leaved, is so lucky
To wear with a wish for a week."
"Just beside you I spy out one nodding;"
Her eager hands caught it with care.
I heard, I am sure, a small whisper,
And pink flushed the forehead so fair
As she kissed the leaf, tenderly laying
Its quadruple petals in place
In the narrow-arched sole of her slipper,
With hopeful content on her face.
The world wore its garlands of verdure,
Its crowns, mingled roses and rue,
Many times ere I met little Jennie—
Not "Bell" any longer, I knew.
Ah, the face had grown wan and despairing,
The hand very slender and weak
That extended itself for the token
I gathered, my greetings to speak.
"Did it bring you good luck, little Jennie,
The wish of your heart, Jennie dear?"
As she stooped o'er the bunch of green leaflets
I saw the swift shine of a tear;
And I saw, in that globule of sorrow
(Sad lens made of pitiful rain)
Shining still on the handful of clover
Poor Love, smitten, bleeding, and slain,
Ere she said, " When I'm resting for ever
You'll plant these out over my bed,
And I'll find the good luck at the rootlets
I've missed in the world overhead."