My face to the sky, and my back in the clover.
Hark to that lark! Its jubilant tone
Is a cheery change from St. Stephen’s drone;
And ah! that whift from the wind-swept brine!
With nought to do but absorb ozone—
Should there be ballad more blythe than mine?
Song of a haven-welcoming lover!
Rare rose-scents from our garden blown
Reach me here, and my eyes discover,
Shimmering there, in a tangle thrown,