Mid the squander'd colour
—idling as I lay
Reading the Odyssey
—in my rock-garden
I espied the cluster'd
—tufts of Cheddar pinks
Burgeoning with promise
—of their scented bloom
All the modish motley
—of their bloom to-be
Thrust up in narrow buds
—on the slender stalks
Thronging springing urgent
—hasting (so I thought)
As if they fear'd to be
—too late for summer—
Like schoolgirls overslept
—waken'd by the bell
Leaping from bed to don
—their muslin dresses
——On a May morning:

Then felt I like to one
—indulging in sin
(Whereto Nature is oft
—a blind accomplice)
Because my aged bones
—so enjoy'd the sun
There as I lay alone
—idling with my thoughts
Reading an old poet
—while the busy world
Toil'd moil'd fuss'd and scurried
—worried bought and sold
Plotted stole and quarrel'd
—fought and God knows what.
I had forgotten Homer
—dallying with my thoughts
Till I fell to making
—these little verses
Communing with the flowers
—in my rock-garden
——On a May morning.