Down through that glen, whose deep gorge unannounced
Heaves all its bordering plains to sudden hills.
The time of year it was, when nature seems
In mood most motherly, with every breath
Held in a mild suspense above a world
Of just born babyhood, when tiny leaves,
Like infant fingers, reach to drain warm dews
From palpitating winds, and when small brooks
Do babble much, birds chirp, lambs bleat, and then,
While all around is one sweet nursery,