Or hath he tuned his song of world’s wailing o’ the day?
Doth morn shew thee naught save thy garden’s wall
That shutteth thee away, a treasure o’ thy day?
Doth yonder hum then spell anaught,
Save whirring o’ the wing that hovereth
O’er thy bud to sup the sweet?
Ah, garden’s deep, afulled o’ fairies’ word,
And creeped o’er with winged mites,
Where but the raindrops’ patter telleth thee His love—
Doth all this vanish then, at closing o’ the day?