She has made me wayside posies: here they stand,
Bringing fresh memories of where they grew.
As new-come travellers from a world we knew Wake every while some image of their land,
So these whose buds our woodland breezes fanned Bring to my room the meadow where they blew,
The brook-side cliff, the elms where wood-doves coo— And every flower is dearer for her hand.
Oh blossoms of the paths she loves to tread,
Some grace of her is in all thoughts you bear:
For in my memories of your homes that were The old sweet loneliness they kept is fled,
And would I think it back I find instead A presence of my darling mingling there.
