Sonnet

Gay trips my nymph along the green retreat, With frolic airy steps; and where they go Fresh florets rise in twice their wonted glow; Yellower the sun-beams o’er the meadows fleet, Or fancies fond possess me. Her light feet, Glancing along, no other traces show; They bend not the young grass, that springs to meet The falling arch of April’s showery bow; Nor bruise the emmet on her busy way; And if the downy blow-ball flies its stalk, So would it fly beneath the gentlest play Of western winds; when, with his tuneful talk, Amid new leaves, each songster of the grove Cheers on her mossy nest his listening love.