Girdled with gold my little lady's bower...

Girdled with gold my little lady's bower Stands at the portals of a world in flower, And down her ways the changing blossoms mark How the Spring grows each day from dawn to dark.

When forth she moves, her dainty foot is set, On cowslip, hyacinth and violet, And all day long the woodland minstrels sing Changes of measure for her pleasuring.

And all night long a passionate music stirs Without her walls—the darkened belt of firs; Hushed in their waving boughs the low winds brood, Murmuring the sea's song for an interlude.