Fragrant Hour

Who is this wandering, fair young maid,
With an earnest look in the garden glade?
She’s searching for the perfect flower
To place in the vase for the Fragrant Hour.
Her eyes rest on blossoms of subtle hue
But only the agapanthus will do
To take to her lover’s secret bower
In her vase for the Fragrant Hour.
At last the bloom she urgently needs
Almost smothered by twining weeds
She finds, refreshed by the morning shower,
And carries in her vase for the Fragrant Hour.