And sun-forgotten dewdrops wink
Amid the grass, in shady nooks.
The breeze, that hangs round every bush,
Steals sweetness from the tender shoots,
With, here and there, a perfumed gush
From violets among the roots.
See—where behind the ivied rock
Grow drifts of white anemonies,
As if the Spring—in Winter’s mock—
Were mimicking his snows with these.