_Our darling loved the meadows and the trees;
Great London jarred him ; he was ill at ease
And alien in the stir, the noise, the press;
The city vexed his perfect gentleness._
_So, loving him, we sent him from the town
To where the autumn leaves were falling brown,
And the November primrose, pale and dim,
In his own garden-plot delighted him._
_There, like his flowers, he would thrive and grow,
We in our fondness thought. But God said: No,
Your way is loving, but not wholly wise;
My way is best—to give him Paradise._