ISSUE: Autumn 1928
This sentient, silken flag of June;
Friend of the larkspur and the phlox,
May be, in spite of certain fame,
A small, resplendent paradox.
The airy paths he flutters down,
Perhaps, are circumspect and straight;
No winged dalliance after dark
At any incandescent gate.
And when he loiters rakishly
Upon the threshold of a flower,
Who knows, but that with diligence
He would improve each shining hour.
Yet, if his splendor should depart,
Leaving him lusterless and brown—
O, would a score of seasons serve
To shatter his frivolous renown.
