And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst His heather)
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—
Our fingers at fate and her goddess-glooms.
And Willie ’gan sing (oh, his notes were fluty;
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-wing’d sea)—
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry.”
Bowers of flowers encounter’d showers