"The pastoral cowslips are our little pets, And daisy stars, whose firmament is green; Pansies, and those veil'd nuns, meek violets, Sighing to that warm world from which they screen; And golden daffodils, pluck'd for May's Queen; And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath; And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen, Whose tuneful voice, turn'd fragrance in his breath, Kiss'd by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death." XXXVII. "The widow'd primrose weeping to the moon And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright A cool libation hoarded for the noon Is kept--and she that purifies the light, The virgin lily, faithful to her white, Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame; And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright, Our every godchild, by whatever name-- Spares us our lives, for we did nurse the same!" XXXVIII. Then that old Mower stamp'd his heel, and struck His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground, Saying, "Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crown'd With flow'ry chaplets, save when they are found Withered?--Whenever have I pluck'd a rose, Except to scatter its vain leaves around? For so all gloss of beauty I oppose, And bring decay on every flow'r that blows." XXXIX. "Or when am I so wroth as when I view The wanton pride of Summer;--how she decks The birthday world with blossoms ever-new, As if Time had not lived, and heap'd great wrecks Of years on years?--O then I bravely vex And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight, And slay them with the wreaths about their necks, Like foolish heifers in the holy rite, And raise great trophies to my ancient might." XL. Then saith another, "We are kindly things, And like her offspring nestle with the dove,-- Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings, To show our constant patronage of love:-- We sit at even, in sweet bow'rs above Lovers, and shake rich odors on the air, To mingle with their sighs; and still remove The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear Their privacy, and haunt some other where." XLI. "And we are near the mother when she sits Beside her infant in its wicker bed; And we are in the fairy scene that flits Across its tender brain: sweet dreams we shed, And whilst the tender little soul is fled, Away, to sport with our young elves, the while We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, And tickle the soft lips until they smile, So that their careful parents they beguile." XLII. "O then, if ever thou hast breathed a vow At Love's dear portal, or at pale moon-rise Crush'd the dear curl on a regardful brow, That did not frown thee from thy honey prize-- If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs, And wooed thee from thy careful thoughts within To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes, Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin, For Love's dear sake, let us thy pity win!" XLIII.