The choicest sweets of every gold-eyed flower,
That on the earth’s green bosom ever grew.
Whether its leaves and scented buds expand,
At morn and eve by spicy breezes fanned,
Above the tropics’ hot volcanic mould,
O’er sunless magazines of gems and gold;
Or nature weaves it with less gaudy dyes,
In moister looms, upon a colder shore—
Each flower-clad vale beneath the purple skies
Its tribute yielded to their fragrant store.