o lady, leave thy silken thread

and flowery tapestrie:

there’s living roses on the bush,

and blossoms on the tree;

stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand

some random bud will meet;

thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find

the daisy at thy feet.

’tis like the birthday of the world,

when earth was born in bloom;

the light is made of many dyes,

the air is all perfume;

there’s crimson buds, and white and blue —

the very rainbow showers

have turn’d to blossoms where they fell,

and sown the earth with flowers.

there’s fairy tulips in the east,

the garden of the sun;

the very streams reflect the hues,

and blossom as they run:

while morn opes like a crimson rose,

still wet with pearly showers;

then, lady, leave the silken thread

thou twinest into flowers!