Flaunting lobelia, lilies richly dight,
And pipe-plant from the wood behind the Swale.
I knew each dell where yellow violets blow,
Each bud or leaf the changing seasons bring;
I marked each spot where from the melting snow
Peeped forth the first hepatica of spring.
I watched the fireflies on the shingly ridge
Beside the swamp that bounds the Baron's hill;
Or tempted sunfish by the ebbing bridge,
Or hooked a bass by Shirley Going's mill.