The common pavement dull and grey
Is strewn with leafy wands to-day,
And sceptres green to the curb’s edge—
For they have cut the privet hedge.
My Baby gathers, bending down,
The branches swept by Mother’s gown
And carries home into the house
Those magical and royal boughs.
But O the milky blossoms sweet
That scented all the sunny street—
Crushed by the Baby’s sandalled tread
They lie behind her, brown and dead.