Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers, And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh; Or, on each season, spell the epitaph Of its dead months repeated in their flowers; Or list the music of the strolling showers, Whose vagabond notes strummed through a twinkling staff; Or read the day's delivered monograph Through all the chapters of its d dal hours. Still with the same child-faith and child-regard He looks on Nature, hearing, at her heart, The...