I

They say that in a sleepy state
You cannot catch a weasel:
But I caught pretty witty Kate
Half-sleeping at her easel.

II

She gazes over emerald turf
To where the river's wave is,
And sees the gardener, swinking serf,
And listens to the mavis.

III

That turf the shadows of the limes
With tremulous patterns stencil —
That thrush's song beats all our rhymes:
So Kate has dropt her pencil.

IV

Upon the lotos-lover's fate
Who will may cast their strictures:
She's a delicious picture, Kate —
So why should she paint pictures?