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Gone were but
the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go
to a covert
Where the birds sing;
Where in the
whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents
Are
the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green
house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering
air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;
"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With
a clear stream
And a mossy stone.
"Here the
sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."
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