Hast thou not been where the enamelled mead
Its beauty gave to the enraptured sense,
And the crushed lily, from the elastic tread,
Yielded its life in breath of sweets intense?
Hast thou not been in spring-time’s early hours,
Where the lone bird its short sweet carol gave
To the young bursting leaves and budding flowers,
Beside some wildly-rushing mountain wave?
Not such the lay it sings in summer hours,
When love beats high within its little breast,