Sweet is thy charmëd world to me!
Dull are these skies 'neath which I range,
And all the summer hills are strange.
Yet sometimes I discern thy gleam
In sparkles of the chiming stream;
And sometimes speaks thy haunting lore
The foam-wreathed sibyl of the shore.
And sometimes will mine eyes incline
To hill or wood that seems like thine;
Or, if the robin pipeth clear,