To climb the steep, and down the blossom drag;
Then the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag.
Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome,
Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern,
And creeps the ivy; with the wish to roam,
He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn,
'Mid chalices with dews in every urn;
All flying things alike delight have found—
Where’er I gaze, to what new region turn,
Ten thousand insects in the air abound,