John Stuart Thomson (1869–1950)

’TWAS in the purple-flow’ring month we met,

And I had gathered fleurs-de-lis for her;

And sought the dim wood where the fern leaves stir

To find an orchis, fringed and sweet and wet;

These in her simple joy she coyly set

Among her tresses;—but I knew her not;

Some passing wind a sylph or nymph had brought.

And ere I sighed or spoke a vain regret,

She led me to a green and shadowy grove,

Where fallow-deer, large eyed, did shyly rove;—

And on a bank of thyme we two did sit;

Words were forgotten; in her wide blue eyes

I read some symbol language, though my wit

Had passed away. I dwelt in Paradise.