Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn,
Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold,
Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the dawn;
Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill,
Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that run
From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the hill,
Still lakes that draw the sun;
All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there
Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.
Poet, the pass-key magical was thine,