This little bowl is like a mossy pool
In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow
Nodding in chequered sunshine of trees;
A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,

Where, though unseen, is heard the endless song
And murmur of the never resting sea.
'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup,
But coming Spring
Guided your eager hand
And round the edge you fashioned young green leaves,
A proper chalice made to hold the shy
Flowers…

They will forget their sad uprooting, lost
In pleasure that this circle of leaves
Should be their setting; once more they’ll dream
They hear winds wandering through lofty trees
And see the sun smiling
And see the sun smiling
between the leaves.