CXII
OFTEN do I in meditation dream
That in my garden thou art, with my flowers:
To watch with me the foxglove, as it towers
High o’er the feathery fern above the stream.
The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam.
The yellow poppies, born in summer hours,
Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers,
And nature in a lovely mood would seem.
So thou, in my imagination, art.
And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven,
We twain, like children, each do play a part;
Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven;
Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to start
And leave the goal for which we both have striven.