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O tell me, little children, have you seen her— The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina? O, her eyes are blue as cornflow'rs mid the corn, And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn! Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her, As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller, Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, With spikes of slender larkspur burning blue. In her little garden many a flower is growing— Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing; But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay Is sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they. |