In whose green boughs the spring and autumn meet,
Where wreaths of bloom around the ripe fruits twine,
And promise with fulfilment stands complete,
So twined around the ripeness of his thought
An ever-springing verdure and perfume,
All his rich fullness from October caught
And all her freshness from the heart of June.
But last year when the sweet wild flowers awoke
And opened their dear petals to the sun,
He was not here, but every flow’ret spoke