Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
And thou old forest, hold ye this for true,
There is no lightning, no authentic dew
But in the eye of love; there’s not a sound,
Melodious howsoever, can confound
The heavens and the earth to such a death
As doth the voice of love; there’s not a breath
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
Of passion from the heart.