A richer hoard of sweets exhale.
Could we again, by fancy led,
That bower of swelling leaves confine,
And round that fine, luxuriant head,
The mossy tendrils now entwine,
Over what multitudes of bloom
Would a few timid leaflets close!
What mental joys resign their room,
To causeless mirth, and tame repose!
The change to Reason's steady eye,