He's worked the subject through and through,
Looked at it under all its phases;
Yes, he's drained dry the very dew,
And threadbare he has worn the daisies.
Each little flower he's made his own,
Not one to future bards resigning;
From buttercup, that stands alone,
To jasmine round a door-post twining.
To try on such a theme to sing
Were only labour lost indeed;