The whim of some dreamer, whom poet they call;
But since the sweet seventh of June, fifty-one,
My doubts have all vanished, like mists in the sun.
As I walked in the garden I saw a sweet rose,
Such as seldom on this side of Paradise grows,
With a deep, deepening blush overspreading its cheek,
Leaning down to a lily, as if it would speak.
Behind a tall orange in bloom, as it spread
Its rich fragrant shadow all over the bed,
Unperceived by the parties, I paused in my walk