Thrice-happy boy the Nine to pleasure
That they for hours of ill
Did send, in love, the golden measure,
The honey of their hill.
Gone are the gods? Nay, he who chooses
This morn may lie at ease
And on a hill-side woo the Muses
And hear their honey-bees;
And haply mid the heath-bell's savour
Some rose-winged chance decoy,