This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling[316] 45
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50
—But there’s a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone: