The Sensitive Plant

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows; 

And all rare blossoms from every clime,— 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, 
Which led through the garden along and across, 
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,
The plumèd insects swift and free, 
Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
Laden with light and odor, which pass 
Over the gleam of the living grass;

And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.