To Celia

Miss Porden

July 1809

The day was fine, the air was mild,
The sun on hill and valley smiled
The birds on wings of joy and love
Flew frequent through the shady grove,
The white, the red rose seemed to vie,
For preference in the gazer’s eye
The jasmine shed its sweet perfume,
And opened wide its starry bloom,
Around it flowers of brighter hue
The fuchsia red, the larkspur blue
And scented sweet, the flower the eyes
Mistake for sportive butterflies,
That roaming Flora’s dewy bower,
Alternate perch on every flower,
Their little lives in pleasure spend
Nor lose a moment, lest it end.

But many a day before I’ve seen
As fresh the flowers, as bright the green,
Why seem they more profusely gay,
Why drest in brighter charms to-day,
Is it because my Celia fair
Will shortly to this spot repair,
And that my soul on friendship’s wings
To meet the maid exulting springs,
For this, in brighter charms array’d
They seem to hail the lovely maid,
For this, a doubly sweet perfume
Appears to shed their lavish bloom.