Spring is come; bright glances dart in the tulip’s bowl of fire; thousand thousand sighs upspire from each several ember’s heart.

Pour a stoup of ruby glow o’er the garden’s dusty bed; strange and shy, in autumn’s dread, tulip and narcissus grow.

Hue-and-scent world fills thine eyes; what the heart is, knowest thou? ’Tis a moon, that round its brow casts a halo of the skies.