Thou know’st not the sweetness, by antique song
Breathed o’er the names of that flowery throng:
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim,
The lily that gleams by the fountain’s brim;
These are old words, that have made each grove
A dreaming haunt for romance and love—
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.
Thou know’st not the light wherewith fairy lore
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o’er: