by Joseph Rodman Drake

He put his acorn helmet on;
It was plumed with the silk of thistledown
The corset plate that guarded his heart
Was like a wild bee's golden vest
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of a butterfly
His shield was a shell of a lady-bug green
Studs of gold on a ground of green
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in a fight
Swift he bestroll his firefly steed
He bared his blade of the ben-grass blue
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,
And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens, and follow far
The fiery trail of a shooting star.

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