IV.—A Peach.

If touch of sense in mortal dust remains1
When mine has been refined from flower to flower,2
Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower3
And delicate winy dews, and gained the gains4
Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing5
Through half a summer day, for love bestow ;6
Then in some warm old garden let me grow7
To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing8
As this. Upon a southward-looking wall9
Basking, I feel my juices dimly fed10
And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden-gray.11
Keep the wasps from me !  but before I fall12
Pluck me white fingers, and o’er two ripe-red13
Girl’s-lips, O let me richly swoon away !14