Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/78

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THE WRITINGS OF OSCAR WILDE.

THE GARDEN OF EROS.

It is full summer now, the heart of June,  Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stirUpon the upland meadow where too soon  Rich autumn time, the season's usurer, Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.
Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,  That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on To vex the rose with jealousy, and still  The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,And like a strayed and wandering revellerAbandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger
The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,  One pale narcissus loiters fearfully Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid  Of their own loveliness some violets lie
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