All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed Of flowers: of lilies such as reared the head On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang So eagerly around about to hang Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride— Of her who loved a mortal—and so died. The Sephalica, budding with young bees, Upreared its purple stem around her knees: And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed— Inmate of highest stars, where erst it shamed All other loveliness: its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropped from Heaven, And fell on gardens of the unforgiven In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower So like its own above that, to this hour, It still remaineth, torturing the bee With madness, and unwonted reverie: In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head, Repenting follies that full long have fled, Heaving her white breast to the balmy air, Like guilty beauty, chastened, and more fair: Nyctanthes, too, as sacred as the light She fears to perfume, perfuming the night: And Clytia pondering between many a sun, While pettish tears adown her petals run: And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth— And died, ere scarce exalted into birth, Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king: And Valisnerian lotus thither flown From struggling with the waters of the Rhone: And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante! Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante! And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever With Indian Cupid down the holy river— Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given To bear the Goddess’ song, in odours, up to Heaven: