I

Now let us forth to find the young witch Spring, Seated amid her bow'rs and birds and buds, Busy with loveliness.--And, wandering Among old forests that the sunlight floods, Or vales of hermit-holy solitudes, Dryads shall beckon us from where they cling, Their limbs an oak-bark brown; their hair--wild woods Have perfumed--wreathed with earliest leaves: and they, Regarding us with a dew-sparkling eye, Shall whispering greet us, as the rain the rye, Or from wild lips melodious welcome fling, Like hidden waterfalls with winds at play.