Through forests sweep the branching hart and hind;
Go back: go up: together let us go.
III
Tell her that boasts—that slender is and tall—
I have a cypress in a sunny space:
Tell her that blushes, by my garden wall
A rose-tree blushes, kindling all the place.
Tell her that sweetly sings and softly moves,
A white swan winds all night below my trees;
My nightingale attunes the moon-lit groves—