Celia’s Home-Coming
(to f. m. r.)
Maidens, kilt your skirts and go
Down the stormy garden-ways,
Pluck the last sweet pinks that blow,
Gather roses, gather bays.
Since our Celia comes to-day
That has been too long away.
Crowd her chamber with your sweets—
Not a flower but grows for her!
Make her bed with linen sheets
That have lain in lavender;
Light a fire before she come
Lest she find us chill at home.
Ah, what joy when Celia stands
By the leaping blaze at last
Stooping down to warm her hands
All benumbed with the blast.
While we hide her cloak away
To assure us of her stay.
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