My love refused a knight’s own hood
for services to royal cause.
Instead of ‘sir,’ he said he would
accept an Osborne myrtle crown.

His vow to take no other good
gave Queen and Boswell certain pause,
but soon decree arrived that said we should
depart for Isle of Wight’s most hallowed ground.

As crested gardener clipped, we stood.
There were no speeches, no applause.
My love looked pleased as any could
at tender blossoms sweetly wound.

With just one glance, all understood
how wise, how beautiful he was.