xii.
There's none like thee, not one in all the world;
No face so fair, no smile so sweet-impearl'd,
And no such music on the hills and plains
As thy young voice whereof the thrill remains
For hours and hours,—belike to keep alive
The sense of beauty that the flowers may thrive.
Or is't thy wish that birds should fly to thee
Before the days of April's quest arrive?