CXII

OFTEN do I in meditation dream That in my garden thou art, with my flowers: To watch with me the foxglove, as it towers High o’er the feathery fern above the stream. The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam. The yellow poppies, born in summer hours, Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers, And nature in a lovely mood would seem. So thou, in my imagination, art. And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven, We twain, like children, each do play a part; Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven; Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to start And leave the goal for which we both have striven.