In an old world garden dreaming,
Where the flowers had human names,
Methought, in fantastic seeming,
They disported as squires and dames.
Of old in Rosamond's Bower,
With it's peacock hedges of yew,
One could never find the flower
Unless one was given the clue;
So take the key of the wicket,
Who would follow my fancy free,
By formal knot and clipt thicket,
And smooth greensward so fair to see
And while Time his scythe is whetting,
Ere the dew from the grass has gone,
The Four Seasons' flight forgetting,
As they dance round the dial stone;
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Lovely prose but his line drawings are what make the book and this edition doesn't have them. Still good for the text.