Publisher's Synopsis
What dreams the flower cups enfold Within their fragrant leaves, Of meadow-ways grown fair with spring, Soft mists that April weaves; And cottage gardens where the scent Of flowers is with the wood-smoke blent. The ceaseless ripple of the brook, Babbling against the broken arch, The little firwood's tasselled spires, The cloud of verdure on the larch; The gold-green glimmer of the woods, Where tender twilight always broods.
