Who that has felt such joy would dare intrude
His heart’s best love into such quiet scene?
Who would not rather stifle thought’s sick brood,
And gag the monitor of existence lean?
For this is the well-spring, whence love must draw
The food to stuff those shapes, on which it doats;
And henceforth, kindlier, pity Nature’s flaw,
Dazzling with lustre all her gloom of motes:
’Tis here the bosom of Existence heaves;
Man feels its swell, which lifts him to more bliss;
He feels the heaven of its warm breath, which leaves
The rapture of young Love’s ideal kiss:
And he is calm, in depth of sweet repose,
In Nature lives, to Nature’s bosom grows.