The pastoral cowslips are our little pets, And daisy stars, whose firmament is green; Pansies, and those veiled nuns, meek violets, Sighing to that warm world from which they screen; And golden daffodils, plucked for May's queen; And lovely harebells, quaking on the heath; And hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen, Whose tuneful voice, turned fragrance in his breath, Kissed by sad zephyr, guilty of his death.