Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.
With all thy rural echoes come,
Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee’s gentle hum,
Or cuckoo’s plaintive roundelay.
Where’er thy morning breath has played,
Whatever isles of ocean fanned,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.