The things we thought that we should do
We other things have done
But those peculiar industries
Have never been begun —
The Lands we thought that we should seek
When large enough to run
By Speculation ceded
To Speculation's Son —
The Heaven, in which we hoped to pause...
We should not mind so small a flower —
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.
So spicy her Carnations nod —
So drunken, reel her Bees —
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees —
That whoso sees this little flower...