  Under the brown leaves meekly abiding, The gem of the spring-flowers nestles away, In copse near th' wood, where covertly hiding, It catches the glow of Aurora's first ray. Where moss and leaf are strewn in profusion— A bed whereon gods might gladly repose— Apart from the world, in rural seclusion The pride of the moorland—arbutus grows. In mossy fields, 'mong refuse of bushes, With rose-tinted lips, like herald of morn, With but a leaf to conceal secret blushes, Earth's first vernal offspring is sweetly born. Modest, retiring, and beautiful sprite, Emblem of graces a maiden should wear, Great is the pleasure, supreme the delight Of searching for joys such coyness doth bear. Child of the woodland in beauty abiding, Whose breath scents the air of early spring morns, Fairies of magical powers are residing In nooks and valleys your presence adorns. Oft in the springtime I wander away To dwell for a time in your blest retreat, Counting such pleasure far sweeter to me Than bustle of city or throng of the street. |
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