AMID a crown of radiant hills, A little wood with blossoms rare Breathes sweetly, while the young lark trills His new learnt melody and fills The fragrant air. Among its boughs the fresh winds play, And, where the spreading branches part, The sun-light drops from spray to spray, To seek the ferny streams which stray Within its heart. And there the wild bee fills his cells, And murmurs through the golden hours, And charmed fancies and sweet spells, Are woven in the tall blue-bells And cuckoo-flowers. There many a mossy bank entwined With shining leaves awaits our choice, Come swiftly, love, my soul unbind With thy dear looks, that it may find Its prisoned voice. |