Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I can not see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves,
And mid-May’s oldest child,