Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its loving daughters, 
The spreading bluebells; it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly 
By infant hands left on the path to die. 
Open afresh your round of starry folds, 
Ye ardent marigolds! 
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 
For great Apollo bids 
That in these days your praises should be sung 
On many harps which he has lately strung; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses, 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses: 
So haply when I rove in some far vale, 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: 
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things, 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 
Linger awhile upon some bending planks 
That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, 
