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Sonnet LXI. The Same.

Nor is a thankful strain from me not due To you, ye company of cherished flowers, That look upon, throughout the weary hours, My study and my prison; for from you I learn that Nature to her charge is true; That she, who clothes with bloom your lavish bowers In kindlier climates, can, in skies like ours, Paint your soft petals with their native hue. And thence I learn that this poetic soul, That fain would revel in the warmth and light Of heavenly beauty, yet in strict control Dwelling, and chilly realms of damp and blight, Must not the more its proper task forego; But in the dreariest clime its blossoms show.