But those little tiny stars be mine
That through the softened copse-wood shine.
With beauty crown the pastoral hill,
And glimmer o’er the sylvan rill,
Where stands the peasant’s ivied nest,
And the huge mill-wheel is at rest.
From out the honeysuckle’s bloom
I peep’d into that laughing room,
Then, like a hail-drop on the pane,
Pattering, I still’d the din again,