The Belles of Canterbury, too:
Wide Oxeyes in the meads that gaze
On scarlet Poppy heads ablaze:
Ere Evening Primrose lights her lamp,
A beacon to the garden camp:
When Lilies of the Day are done,
And sunk the golden westering sun:
Fresh Pinks cast incense on the air,
In fluttering garments fringed and rare.
Their cousin from the corn in blue;