SONNET

THIS little space which scented box encloses

Is blue with lupins and is sweet with thyme.

My garden all is overblown with roses,

My spirit all is overblown with rhyme,

And like a drunken honeybee I waver

From house to garden and again to house,

And, undetermined which delight to favour,

On verse and rose alternately carouse.

Adam, were you, in your primeval plenty,

A poet and a gardener in one?

Did you with easy songs the blossoms sheave,

In Eden where the blooms by ten and twenty

Sprang up beneath the magic of the sun,

To deck the brows of your capricious Eve?