A Song to Belinda
Belinda in her dimity,
Whereon are wrought pink roses,
Trips through the boxwood paths to me,
A-down the garden-closes,
As though a hundred roses came,
(’Twas so I thought) to meet me,
As though one rosebud said my name
And bent its head to greet me.
Belinda, in your rose-wrought dress
You seemed the garden’s growing;
The tilt and toss o’ you, no less
Than wind-swayed posy blowing.
’Twas so I watched in sweet dismay,
Lest in that happy hour,
Sudden you’d stop and thrill and sway
And turn into a flower.
Theodosia Garrison