Thy zephyry fragrance, delicate and rare,
Steals with a dewy breath upon my sense.
Eager I seek thee out then, to behold
Thy bell upon the vesper breezes toll
Pomp’s knelling requiem with solemn nod,
Thou purest Joy, ’mid teeming fold on fold
Of prodigal waywardness, is this thy dole,
Simplicity that boasts no touch save God?
The Honeysuckle’s heavily-laden breath
Floats on the balmy winds in languid fumes;