On fields and woods of ‘Bonnie Doon,’

These simple flowers had been a boon

Less dear to me; but since they grew

On sacred spots which once he knew,

They breathe, though crushed and shorn of bloom,

To-night within this lonely room,

Such perfumes, that to me prolong

The passionate sweetness of his song.

The glory of an early death

Was his; and the immortal wreath