Sweet mysterious solemn dreaming.
Don't find fault then, if my song now
Soars within the forest shades.
'Twas in March: still played the Winter
Masquerade; the branches, laden
With fantastical ice-crystals,
To the ground were lowly drooping;
Here and there, out of Earth's bosom
Tender plants their heads were thrusting--
Wood-anemones and cowslips.