And bade that bounteous season bloom again,
And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.


III.

It was a shady and sequester'd scene,
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio,
Planted with his own laurels evergreen,
And roses that for endless summer blow;
And there were fountain springs to overflow
Their marble basins,--and cool green arcades
Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,--
With timid coneys cropping the green blades.


IV.

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish,
Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin,
Some crimson-barr'd;--and ever at a wish
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in,
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom;
Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win
My changeable regard,--for so we doom
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.