LXIII

UPON the highland spaces greet me, Love, And with the fir and hemlock all around thee, Twine thy fair self about my soul, and be Therein the wood-nymph of my rustic grove. Now dost thou fly towards me like some sweet dove, Lighting from branch to branch, and willingly, A group of blossoms bringing unto me From the ethereal atmosphere above. ’Tis in the air of nature then that we Find through its simple pleasure love’s delight, Free from the turmoil that doth find its birth In following the paths that others see. Then would the stars illuminate the night, And turn to Heaven the very things of earth.