THE THIRD BIRTHDAY
Three candles had her cake,
Which now are burnt away;
We wreathed it for her sake
With currant-leaves and bay
And the last graces
Of Michaelmas Daisies
Pluckt on a misty day.
Curled (as she cut her cake)
In mine her fingers lay;
Purple the petals brake,
Bruised was the scented bay;
Like a yellow moth
On the white white cloth
One currant-leaf flew away.