O Lady, leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestrie:

There’s living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand

Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find

The daisy at thy feet.

’Tis like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There’s cri............