That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters.
Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters,
The spreading blue-bells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!