Of beechen buds that burst their sheath,
And twining tendrils, while beneath,
Where twisted roots made hollows meet,
Grew budding primrose at my feet.
There all the riddles of a life
Which vexes me with aimless strife;
The broken thoughts, that not with pain
Nor patience ere will meet again,
Were laid aside, nay, seemed to drop
As, when loud jarring voices stop,