A pleasant picture of an English wood. …
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
A rotted log in a cool grave bog
Where moss and grasses overgrows that is where the wild thymne blows.
Oxlip, forgetmenot and violet amid the rot beside the summer meadow grows and in the evening marshlight glows.
The dazzling scent of the woodbine that lures the tramp with elgantine that travellers rest that woodmen knows.
As scented shade besides the roads.
And all the while they conspire to lay them there in sweet attire.
And plan alone to spend the night in god's arbours of sweet delight.
And then awake alone and gone.
Brief, refreshed to wonder on.
Cold day brave amid the dawn.
The pheasant's eye that climbs the wall that jackgrowsover's yellow sprawl.
And with the daisy in the lane turns to watch the sun again.
All England's roses of the bower has each in season each it's tower and each it's scent and each its rhyme.
Between the spring and wintertime.