Midway Upon The Lawn It Stands, So Picturesque And Pretty; Upreared By Patient Artist Hands, Admired Of All The City; The Very Arbor Of My Dream, A Covert Cool And Airy, So Leaf-Embowered As To Seem The Dwelling Of A Fairy. It Is The Place To Lie Supine Within A Hammock Swinging, To Watch The Sunset, Red As Wine, To Hear The Crickets Singing; And While The Insect World Around Is Buzzing - By The Million - No Wing'D Thing Above The Ground Intrudes In This Pavilion. It Is The Place, At Day'S Decline, To Tell The Old, Old Story Behind The Dark Madeira Vine, Behind The Morning Glory; To Confiscate The Rustic Seat And Barter Stolen Kisses, For Honey Must Be Twice As Sweet In Such A Spot As This Is. It Is The Haunt Where One May Get Relief From Petty Trouble, May Read The Latest Day'S Gazette About The "Klondike" Bubble: How Shanties Rise Like Golden Courts. Where Sheep Wear Glittering Fleeces, How Gold Is Picked Up - By The Quartz - And All Get Rich As Croesus. Here Hid Away From Dust And Heat, Secure From Rude Intrusion, While Willing Lips The Thought Repeat, So Grows The Fond Illusion: That Happiness The Product Is Of Lazy, Languid Dozing, Of Soft Midsummer Reveries, Half-Waking, Half-Reposing. And Here In Restful Interlude, Life'S Fallacies Forgetting, Its Frailties - Such A Multitude - The Fuming And The Fretting, Amid The Fragrance, Dusk, And Dew, The Happy Soul At Even May Walk Abroad, And Interview Bright Messengers From Heaven.