But what have wars or kings to do
With our quiet country ways,
Or with poetry now-a-days?
The Foxglove by the gate that grew
Brought them to mind, and made me lose
Myself in that past stream of news:
And there it still remains to-day;
The Mistress of our Garden Bower
Caring for each wild blossoming
The summer months successive bring.

Each morning here, in sun or shower,
Awhile we sit while I rehearse,
As matin service, some new lay,
Some little verse,
Various as this sea-side weather,
Or that hill-side rough with heather,
Rhyme-children of the transient hour,
Records perchance of yesterday,
Or tales from twilights far away.