To Mary Russell Mitford in Her Garden

What time I lay these rhymes anear thy feet,
Benignant friend, I will not proudly say
As better poets use, "These flowers I lay,"
Because I would not wrong thy roses sweet,
Blaspheming so their name. And yet, repeat
Thou, overleaning them this springtime day,
With heart as open to love as theirs to May,
— "Low-rooted verse may reach some heavenly heat,
Even like my blossoms, if as nature-true
Though not as precious." Thou art unperplext —
Dear friend, in whose dear writings drops the dew
And blow the natural airs, — thou, who art next
To nature's self in cheering the world's view, —
To preach a sermon on so known a text!