To the fresh meadows—there thy neck of snow,
And broad intelligent brow, with drops to lave
Of clearest May-dew—so no envious stain,
Freckle, nor sunburnt spot, shall mar the sheen
Of that pure skin, which, exquisitely white,
Glows with rich witness of the eloquent blood,
That courses, in its thousand channels warm,
Beneath the snowy surface.
Morn is up,
With all her matin worship—song of birds,