I sought the sun-lit window-sill,

Above the gray enclosure,

That glimmering in the sultry haze,

Faint-flowered, dimly shaded,

Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize,

Bedizened and brocaded.

A queer old place! You'd surely say

Some tea-board garden-maker

Had planned it in Dutch William's day
To please some florist Quaker,

So trim it was. The yew-trees still,

With pious care perverted,

Grew in the same grim shapes; and still

The lipless dolphin spurted;

Still in his wonted state abode

The broken-nosed Apollo ;

And still the cypress-arbour showed

The same umbrageous hollow.