And on its banks all flow’rets which abound
In the bright circle of the charmèd May:
Primroses, whose faint fragrance you may know
From other blooms; and oxlips, whose sweet breath
Is kissed by windflowers—star-like gems which blow
Beside pale sorrel, in whose veins is death;
Larch-trees are there, with plumes of palest green;
And cherry, dropping leaves of scented white;
While happy birds, amid the verdant screen,
Warble their songs of innocent delight.