OH, dear to me the simple flowers
Which bloom in gardens such as these,
Let jasmine shine in ladies' bowers,
And myrtle fringe the southern seas;

Let gentians star primæval rocks,
And pierce the late-dissolving snow;
But give me gilly-flowers and stocks,
And those sweet gardens where they grow.

I like grey walls with ivy hung,
And roofs where flickering shadows play,
Old apple-trees, where birds have sung
While generations pass'd away.

Thick hedges shaven fine and neat,
And wild ones where the woodbine creeps,
All clumps of blossom smelling sweet,
All grassy banks where sunshine sleeps.

Tall firs, like sturdy sentinels,
Elms habited by cawing rooks,
And lilies ringing various bells
To prayer and praise in shady nooks.

Let India boast her fan-leafed palm,
And Lebanon her cedar-trees,
Give me a summer Sunday's calm,
And garden fill'd with flowers like these;

And any song that I can sing
Will overflood my lips in rhyme;
My heart, possess'd of every thing,
Forget the sense of space and time;

All sorrow softly melt away,
Dissolving in a rainbow shower;
And I, for one long happy day,
Dream that I am a sinless flower.