LXXXI
LIKE columbine in May, or rose in June,
Like meadow flower, or clover in the morn,
All moist with early dew, that laughs to scorn
The sunbeam that destroyeth it at noon;
Like scented lavender or rue, that soon
Doth usher in the flow’ring ears of corn,
To wave in glory, ere the wind hath torn
Their emerald leaves, beneath the harvest moon:
Like this whole pageant of the season’s time,
With all its glories rollèd into one,
Art thou: the fairest treasure nature bringeth,
Through every year and every age sublime:
For in thine eyes the radiance of the sun
Could warm each flower and every bird that wingeth.