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Fair is the leisure of life’s garden-ground:
Pleasant is friendship’s voice & mirth’s soft sound.
Sweet are the perfumed flowers; yea, yea, what bliss
Sootheth like hope’s fresh scent of loveliness?
Lovely, O nightingale, is thy lament;
Ever to listening love thy plaint is dear;
In the fond thought of love thy life is spent.
Though in this world joy’s goal is but a name,
Fair is thy fadeless hope, blest wanderer,
Beauteous its gentle fire & flickering flame.
From the pure lily heard I this clear song:
‘Happy their peaceful life who work no wrong;
Sweet idle flowers, whom heav’n’s sweet airs do kiss;
No conqu’ring king hath joy more fair than this.’