Sicilian nightingales enrapturéd
Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky.
The sonnet “Of Flowers” gives a happy setting to a beautiful thought:
There were no roses till the first child died,
No violets, no balmy-breathed heartsease,—
No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees,
The honey-hearted suckle, no gold-eyed
And lowly dandelion, nor, stretching wide
Clover and cowslip cups, like rival seas,
Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze