And with moist finger, painted by the leaves,
A coronet of roses interweaves;
Then steals unheard, and gliding thro' the yews,
The odorous offering on her mother strews.
At morn with tender pause, the nymphs admire,
How recent chaplets still the grave attire;
And matrons nightly tell, how fairies seen,
Danc'd roundelays aslant its cowslipped green.
Even when the whiten'd vale is bleak with snows,
That verdant spot the little Robin knows;