By branches o’er, by flowers beneath,
Making earth odorous with their breath;
Or through the shadeless gold-gorze heath,
Or 'neath the poplars shaded.
Were we of feather, or of fin,
How blest to dash the river in,
Thread the rock-stream, as it advances—
Or, better, like the birds above,
Rise to the greenest of the grove,
And sing the matin song of love,