Admiring silence while those lovers sleep.
Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,
Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
Go eddying round and small birds how they fare,
When Mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
Filch’d from the careless Amalthea’s horn:
And how the woods berries and worms provide
Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
To answer their small wants.