And fragrance of an hundred years are pent,
To thee, dear girl, at Christmas-tide is sent
By one who breathes with love the sweet perfume
Of such frail flowers. Let aye the world consume
Itself with toil and labour—such are all
Without the bounds of this my garden-wall,
And I, in light, feel not nor heed their gloom.
Come thou into my Garden! Let me show
Thee all the treasures that do lend it grace,
These goodly Sonnets, standing in a row