A Boutonnière

A DEWY fragrance drifts at times
Across my willing senses,
And leads the rillet of my rhymes
From city gutters, gusts, and grimes
To lowland lields and fences.

I seem to see, as I inhale
This perfume faint and fleeting,
Green hillsides sloping to a vale,
Whose leafy shadows screen the pale
Wood-flowers from noonday’s greeting.

I hear the song—the sweet heartache —
Of just a pair of thrushes ;
And hear, half dreaming, half awake,
The ripple of a streamlet break
Their momentary hushes.

And why, dear heart, do I to-day.
Hemmed in by court and alley,
Seem lost in haunts of faun and fay ?
Look! — on my coat I’ve pinned your spray
Of lilies-of-the-valley.