And swans their snowy pastime take.
And underneath and overhead,—
The breathings of a water-nymph
It seems,—the violets' scent is shed
Mixed with the music of the lymph.
And where,—upon its pedestal,—
The old sun-dial marks the hours,
Laburnum blossoms lightly fall,
And duchess roses rain their flowers.
The air is languid with perfume,