The rich luxuriance of May—
But loveliest still thy flowers I deem,
And dearest thou, my native stream!
Thus clings around our early joys
A mystic charm no time destroys,
Endearing recollections more,
When all of real joy is o’er.
Forgive, Whang, this digressive strain;
The journey done, I’m yours again.
If for a simile I sought