  In the garden a thousand roses, A vine of jessamine flower, Sweetpeas in coquettish poses, Sweetbrier with its fragrant dower. There are hollyhocks tall and slender, And marigolds gay and fair, And sunflowers in glowing splendour, Geraniums rich and rare; And the wee, white, innocent daisy, Half hidden amid the lawn; A bee grown drowsy and lazy— On honey he's drunk since dawn— Is reposing with wings extended On some soft, passionate rose, Aglow with a blush more splendid Than ever a fair cheek knows. While a thrush, in the ivy swinging That clusters over the gate, Athrob with the spring is singing, And ardently calls his mate. For the spirit of all sweet odours The soul of a June unborn Has hallowed my humble garden, And whispered to me since dawn. And the flowers in a prayer of rapture, Bent low to that spell divine, Are wafting their sweetest incense In clouds, at his sunlit shrine. |
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