In an old world garden dreaming, Where the flowers had human names, Methought, in fantastic seeming, They disported as squires and dames. Of old in Rosamond's Bower, With it's peacock hedges of yew, One could never find the flower Unless one was given the clue; So take the key of the wicket, Who would follow my fancy free, By formal knot and clipt thicket, And smooth greensward so fair to see…
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