ODE XIX.[1]
Reading edition
ODE XIX.[1]
Here recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this embowering shade; Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze; Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling soft the mind to sleep; Hark! they whisper as they roll, Calm persuasion to the soul; Tell me, tell me, is not this All a stilly scene of bliss? "Who, my girl, would pass it by? Surely neither you nor I."
[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it.