Once more the garden leaps in fire,
1
The lips of June how red, how red!
But the young rose of my desire
Blooms in the garden of the dead;
Nor will she raise her dreaming head
5
For any song, how sweet it be—
Flame on, ye flowers in glory spread!
Bring me my jar of pot-pourri.
With brimming cup and soaring spire,
9
Glows and smells sweet each garden bed;
The haughty tapestries of Tyre
Never so many glories wed
Into their pomp of royal thread;
13
Nor ever yet hath honey-bee
On such delirious nectar fed—
Bring me my jar of pot-pourri.
Lover, that, with enamoured lyre,
17
Love at thy side with aery tread,
Singest in this garden, to a quire
Of answering angels overhead,
Long be it ere thy joy be sped!
21
Here is no fairer flower than she;
Yet mine a lovelier thing instead—
Bring me my jar of pot-pourri.
Prince of Life's Garden, hear it said:
25
However rare thy rose—shall be
More rare her hoarded petals shed:
Bring me my jar of pot-pourri.