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Poem	It is the season of the sweet wild rose, My Lady's emblem in the heart of me! So golden-crownèd shines she gloriously, And with that softest dream of blood she glows: Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright! I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive The time when in her eyes I stood alive. I seem to look upon it out of Night. Here's Madam, stepping hastily. Her whims Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop. As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop, And crush it under heel with trembling limbs. She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks Of company, and even condescends To utter laughing scandal of old friends. These are the summer days, and these our walks.
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