FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERRICK'S POEMS
IN Devon, when the year was new, For London made he moan; And all the windy daylight through, Longed for her walls of stone.
The call of March was naught to him, For London's rose more shrill; And blowing sweet, and blowing slim, Waxed worn the daffodil.
But when the soothing dusk came down, He knew a mood more kind; A vision empty of the town Brake on his restless mind.
Betwixt the lanes and rectory door, He seemed to lightly pass; He saw the stalked gold once more Brim all his orchard grass.
Oh, still the air of Devon thrills, After two centuries long! For here behold these daffodils Saved by a snatch of song.