The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil;
And all the scene, in short—sky, earth and sea,
Breathes like a bright-eyed face that laughs out openly.
Leigh Hunt.
I know where the young May violet grows,
In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank where the larch tree throws
Its broad dark boughs in solemn repose,