I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embal

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows.The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets cover’d up in leavesAnd mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. -- source link


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