In summer showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violets, or interrupt
The merle’s dulcet pipe—melodious bird!
He hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
Sweet is the sunny nook to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where—so lovely all around,
The works of God arrayed in vernal smile.