And gardens oped their greenéd breast
To shew to Earth o’ such an one.
And soft the morn did woo its bloom;
And nights wept ’pon its cheek,
And mosses crept them ’bout the stem,
That sun not scoarch where it had sprung.
And lo, the garden sprite, a maid,
Who came aseek at every day,
And kissed the bud, and cast o’ drops
To cool the warm sun’s rays.