Friend of my heart, here in my close green bower
I wait thy coming: slender clematis
And the rank wild--vine, with late primroses,
And classic tea--tree with small purple flower,
Are here, and foxglove with its bearded bell,
Haunt of the passing bee: and thy delight,
The lily of the valley, purest white,
Rising like fabled nymph from ocean--shell.
Nor wanting is Canova's art divine:
On the rude trunk, native in earth below,
The god of gladness, garlanded with vine,
And Ariadne re--assured from woe;
And the full noon, by leafy screen delayed,
Has spread the pebbled floor with fickle shade.