Or riding, or driving, or by the sea,
And not with a smile for the passion-flower,
Would he never, never have cared for me?
Who planted the root, and its climbing plann'd?
Who water'd below or cherish'd above?
Is it the work of a gardener's hand
That causes my Harry and me to love?
Had that gardener never been born or hir'd,
Or done this one insignificant thing;
Had the passion-flower died;—my heart is tir'd