What dreams the flower cups enfold
Within their fragrant leaves,
Of meadow-ways grown fair with spring,
Soft mists that April weaves;
And cottage gardens where the scent
Of flowers is with the wood-smoke blent.

The ceaseless ripple of the brook,
Babbling against the broken arch,
The little firwood's tasselled spires,
The cloud of verdure on the larch;
The gold-green glimmer of the woods,
Where tender twilight always broods.