There breathes no sigh on the dayspring’s air.
Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells
A light, all made for the poet dwells—
A light, colour’d softly by tender leaves,
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives.
The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree,
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee;
And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern,
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn.
There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth,