They tell me, when my tongue grows warm on thee,
Dear gentle hill, with tresses green and bright,
That thou art wanting in the finishing sight
Sweetest of all for summer eye to see;—
That whatsoe'er thy charm of spire and tree,
Of dell wrapped in, or airy-viewing height,
No water looks from out thy face with light,
Or waits upon thy walks refreshfully.

It may be so,—casual though pond or brook:—
Yet not to me so full of all that 's fair,
Though fruit-embowered, with fingering sun between,
Were the divinest fount in Fancy's nook,
In which the Nymphs sit tying up their hair,
Their white backs glistening through the myrtles green.