I walk down the garden-paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
A Little Song
When you, my Dear, are away, away,
How wearily goes the creeping day.
A year drags after morning, and night
Starts another year of candle light.
If I could catch the green lantern of the firefly
I could see to write you a letter.
See! I give myself to you, Beloved!
My words are little jars
For you to take and put upon a shelf.
Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,
The Poet took his walking-stick
Of fine and polished ebony.
Set in the close-grained wood
Were quaint devices;