Poems (Storrie)/A Sprig of Mint
A Sprig of Mint.
A sprig of mint, an herb of lowly sort For homely usages designed, and yet When I have pressed a leaf, in idle spoil Between my fingers, straight I am beset By haunting childish memories, on a wet And fragrant bank of mint I lie, athwart The creek, the snowy ti-tree blooms are met, And fleets of fallen petals are in port; An elfin charm is filtered through the air, A hum of cloistered gnats in emerald cells With drowsy chantings that the gadflies share, And this sad heart that on a sudden swells At the remembered fragrance was it there And did it lie and dream as fancy tells?