Eydon Hall
Vert alleys with trim trees arching o’erhead,
And ending in a vista of blue hills,
Statue, or vase, or nook where grottoed rills,
Trickling from stone to stone, clear coolness shed;
Elsewhere a pleasaunce, with quaint patterns spread
Of rarest flowers; an orangery that fills
The air with that sweet odor which distils
From Lisbon or the Azores, seaward led.
There needs but laughter from the shrubberies coming,
Ladies, and rustling silks, a gorgeous show,
And mantled cavaliers chitarras strumming
Or whispering love in willing ears; - and lo!
A picture by Lancret or by Watteau,
Or tale recorded by Boccaccio.
Vert alleys with trim trees arching o’erhead,
And ending in a vista of blue hills,
Statue, or vase, or nook where grottoed rills,
Trickling from stone to stone, clear coolness shed;
Elsewhere a pleasaunce, with quaint patterns spread
Of rarest flowers; an orangery that fills
The air with that sweet odor which distils
From Lisbon or the Azores, seaward led.
There needs but laughter from the shrubberies coming,
Ladies, and rustling silks, a gorgeous show,
And mantled cavaliers chitarras strumming
Or whispering love in willing ears; - and lo!
A picture by Lancret or by Watteau,
Or tale recorded by Boccaccio.