But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene
The kirtles, tender-green,
And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers,
How will he throb for hours,
And wish the lark, the laureate of the light,
Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight,
And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write.
VI.
Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told,
And deem'd it fairy-gold,—