Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a
Where the birds sing;
Where in the
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh
Are the budding
Arching high overA cool green house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering
Which sayeth softly:"We spread no snare;"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear
And a mossy stone."Here the sun
Most shadily;
Here is heard an
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."
