Who hath not bless’d the woods, that gave the breeze,
Freshening the city from his summer cheek?
Who hath not trembled to the quivering leaves,
Wondering such music thus was left to seek?
And thus, the hubbub left of wandering words,
My steed returns along the well-known road;
He knows his home by music of no birds,
Though by instinct of as harmonious load;
For, there, thy voice laughs fantasies away,
Showing the earnest of my fancy’s dream;
And, there, thy love has traced the lively way,
Whose signs, but thought on, indistinctly gleam:
I turn to thee, and soon forget all fears;
Swerves not my skiff, when such strong pilot steers.