I stroll forth this flowery day
Of " print frocks " and buds of may,
And speedwells of tender blue
Whom no sky can match for hue.

I love well my English home;
Yet far thoughts do stealing come
To throng me like honey-bees,
Till far flowers my fancy sees —

'Tis almond against the snows,
And gentian, and mountain rose,
And iris, in purple bright,
The France flower, the flower of light!