How well I know when first I met The Sweet Flag’s graceful form; ’Twas on a glowing summer’s day, Mid hearts as bright and warm. Mid hearts as warm as sunny gleams, And eyes as kind and bright, And spirits that, like sunshine too, Are cheering, loved, and light. We gathered there the Acorus From Claremont’s quiet lake; And home with me, full many a mile, I did the pale flower take. ’Twas new to me, but yet is not So very scarce and rare, As many a river knoweth well; None better than the Yare! For by its banks abundantly The fragrant tall leaves grow; Singing with reedy rustling voice, Whene’er soft breezes blow. The Mayor of Norwich holds in June His annual feast and show; And to the grand cathedral church Processions with him go. And then the gray and solemn aisles, And all the ancient floor, Are with the aromatic leaves Bestrewèd thickly o’er. In by-gone days the costly fumes Of incense here were shed; But sweeter far the fragrant gush That greets each passing tread. In the sordid streets are bowers built, Of these same reeds as well, Plaited and wrought like basket-work, All full of spicy smell. And many a queer and quaint device Are round about them made, Of the gold and red ranunculus, In varied shape and shade. Oh! many a young and guileless heart Is blithe as blithe can be, To walk through Norwich streets that morn, The decked out bowers to see. In far gone times, ere folks had grown So mighty nice and clever-- When carpets were unheard-of things, And druggets dreamed of never-- When wide bare floors of good hard mud Or stone, not over even, Were all that unto knightly strides, Or dames’ light steps, were given-- When common rushes strewed the halls Where royal banquets were-- How precious must these reeds have been Beside the banks of Yare! I can fancy high and dainty dames Sending stout serving-men To gather store of these sweet Flags, From river, pool, and fen. Perhaps to strew a lady’s bower, Perhaps the castle hall, Where warlike lords and knights should meet At stately festival. How often in the chapel too, The fresh-thrown reeds might lie; While the tears and smiles of a bridal band Went softly passing by! And they were there when sorrow deep Wept the untimely doom Of young, and bright, and beautiful, Borne to the ancestral tomb. In sooth it is an ancient thing, This new-found friend of mine, And many a scene of joy and wo Hath it known in days lang syne. I love it for them all right well, But yet I love it more For the fairy scene that lay around Its home on that lakeless shore: