Now truly we
In London town have got ahead of thee.
Thou mayst outrun
Us all too soon, but meanwhile we have won
A glorious victory
Over rusticity;
And budding trees
Thy servant sees
Whilst thine still sleep in all their sylvan pride.
Prithee, are yet thine almonds out?
Speak truly, and small doubt
But that the answer will with laurels crown my side.
Green now our grass
As that o'er which thy rustic footsteps pass.
Our dusky squares
Sport many a branch that Spring's embroidery wears.
Such foliage now endows
Hyde Park's horse-chestnut boughs
As well I know
Thine cannot show;
And ah, to think the Flower Walk should unfold
Sights that, in certain borders trim,
The watchful eyes of him
To whom these lines I write do not, as yet behold!
And grudge us not
Favors that sweeten for awhile our lot;
But grant to us
What Dives well can spare to Lazarus.
Think of thy days to come,
Thy overwhelming sum
Of summer flowers,
Thy fragrant showers
Of rosy petals scenting night and day,
Of all thy lilies blowing where
Sweet sober lavender
Borders with dainty spikes thy pleasant garden way.