I know that from thine eyes

The Spring her violets grew;

Those bits of April skies,

On which the green turf lies,

Whereon they blossom blue.

I know that Summer wrought

From thy sweet heart that rose,

With such faint fragrance fraught,—

Its pale, poetic thought

Of peace and deep repose.—

That Autumn, like some god,

From thy delicious hair,—

Lost sunlight 'neath the sod,—

Shot up this goldenrod

To toss it everywhere.