I.

A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere: And odours haunt me of remotest spice From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay, Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho, Where everything is nice: The more I sniff, the more I swoon away, And what else mortal palate craves, forego.