Through it I trace on every hand
Beauties, would grace a fairy-land,
And think that, like a grateful eye,
It smiles on all beneath the sky.
There, too, my sweet geranium blows,
And mignionette, and crimson rose,
When all without is clad in snows.
I doubt me, if a princess feels
More joy than that which o’er me steals,
When light and morn my slumbers break,