She has made me wayside posies: here they stand, 
Bringing fresh memories of where they grew. 
As new-come travellers from a world we knew 
Wake every while some image of their land, 
So these whose buds our woodland breezes fanned 
Bring to my room the meadow where they blew, 
The brook-side cliff, the elms where wood-doves coo-- 
And every flower is dearer for her hand. 

Oh blossoms of the paths she loves to tread, 
Some grace of her is in all thoughts you bear: 
For in my memories of your homes that were 
The old sweet loneliness they kept is fled, 
And would I think it back I find instead 
A presence of my darling mingling there.