ON tree-topped hill, on tufted green While yet Aurora's vest is seen, Before the sun has left the sea, Let the fresh morning breathe on me. To furze-blown heath, or pasture mead, Do thou my happy footsteps lead; Then show me to the pleasing stream, Of which at night so oft I dream. At noon the mazy wood I'll tread, With autumn leaves and dry moss spread; And cooling fruits for thee prepare, For sure I think thou wilt be there. Till birds begin their evening song, With thee the time seems never long; O let us speak our love that's past, And count how long it has to last. I'll say eternally, and thou Shall only look as kind as now; I ask no more, for that affords What is not in the force of words. |