Konrad Ferdinand Meyer (1825–1898)

THE CHILD had of the garden made a friend,

Till both in autumn withered to an end.

The sun was fled and both had gone to sleep,

Enfolded in a cover white and deep.

The garden now has wakened to the light,

But still the child is slumb’ring in her night.

“Where are you?” So ’tis buzzing here and there.

For her the garden clamours everywhere.

The morning-glory, climbing up with grace,

Peeps through the window: “Leave your hiding-place!

Come out, or it will be your own distress!

Come, let me see your fine new summer-dress!”