Iii

Nay, cease not till thy breast disquieted Hath won a term of ease; the dewy grass Trackless at morn betrays not thy swift tread, And through smooth-closing air thy call-notes pass, To faint on yon soft-bosom’d pastoral steep Thee bird the Night accepts; and I, through thee, Reach to embalmèd hearts of summers dead, Feel round my feet old, inland meadows deep, And bow o’er flowers that not a leaf have shed, Nor once have heard moan of an alien sea.