Classic Poem

Unto the spot I picture forth
I enter'd into that garden green;
'twas August, at a festal tide,
when corn is cut with keen-edg'd hook.
The mound my Pearl had roll'd adown
with herbs was shadow'd, beauteous, bright,—
gilvers, ginger, and gromwell-seed,
and peonies powder'd all about.
But if the sight was sweet to see,
fair, too, the fragrance floating thence,
where dwelleth that glory, I wot full well,
my precious Pearl without a spot