From the swing, from the garden, helter-skelter,

A twig runs up to the glass.

Enormous, close, with a drop of emerald

At the tip of the cluster cast.

The garden is clouded, lost in confusion,

In staggering, teeming fuss.

The dear one, as big as the garden, a sister

By nature—a second glass!

But then this twig is brought in a tumbler

And put by the looking-glass;

Which wonders:—Who is it that blurs my vision,

From the dull, from the prison-class?