Mary-bud

And winking Mary-buds begin / To ope their golden eyes: / With every thing that pretty is, / My lady sweet, arise.

The garden lay below me, and the dewy meadows beyond. In the one, bees were busy ruffling the ruddy gillyflowers and April stocks; in the other, the hedge twigs were all frosted with Mary buds, as if Spring had brushed them with the fleece of her wings in passing.