Iii

Come to the forest, or the treeless meadows Deep with their hay or grain; Come where the hills lift high their thrones of shadows, And tawny orchards reign. Come where the reapers whet the scythe; Where golden sheaves are heaped; where berriers blithe, With willow-basket and with pail, Swarm knoll and plain; Where flowers freckle every vale, And Beauty goes with hands of berry-stain.