ENVOY. 



SMILING you blame the idle mood which clings 

 Still to one corner of the marvellous earth, 

 And holds a rood of English garden worth 



The harvest of your far-held wanderings. 



And while we talk, o'erhead the swallow sings 

 High in the blue, or, stooping, trills her mirth 

 About the lowly eaves that saw her birth, 



Along, the lawns where first she felt her wings. 



With me she loves the silent isle of flowers 

 Between the meadows and the chimneys grey, 



Loves the close paths and solitary bowers, 

 The narrow precinct and the trim array ; 



Yet some still morning, after certain hours, 

 Over the marvellous earth she sweeps away. 



