That sunny afternoon in May, How stealthily we crept away, We three—(Good things are done in threes: That is, good things in threes are done When you make two and I make one.)— To hatch our small conspiracies!
Between the blossomy apple-trees (You recollect?) we sped, and then Safe in the green heart of the wood We breathed again. The purple flood the bluebells made Washed round about us where we stood, While voices, where the others played, Assured us we were not pursued.
A fence to climb or wriggle through, A strip of meadow wet with dew To cross, and lo! before us flared The clump of yellow gorse we shared With five young blackbirds and their mother. There, close beside our partners' nest, And free from Mr. C. (that pest!), And careless of the wind and damp, We framed the story of The Flamp.