Sonnet. Sylvan Musings
SYLVAN MUSINGS .
IN MAY .
Couched in cool shadow, girt by billowy swells
Of foliage, rippling into buds and flowers,
Here I repose o'erfanned by breezy bowers,—
Lulled by a delicate stream whose music wells
Tender and low through those luxuriant dells,
Wherefrom a single broad-leaved chestnut towers;—
Still musing in the long, lush, languid hours,—
As in a dream I heard the tinkling bells
Of far-off kine, glimpsed through the verdurous sheen,
Blent with faint bleatings from the distant croft,—
The bee-throngs murmurous in the golden fern,
The wood-doves veiled by depths of flickering green,—
And near me, where the wild “queen fairies” burn,
The thrush's bridal passion, warm and soft!
IN MAY .
Couched in cool shadow, girt by billowy swells
Of foliage, rippling into buds and flowers,
Here I repose o'erfanned by breezy bowers,—
Lulled by a delicate stream whose music wells
Tender and low through those luxuriant dells,
Wherefrom a single broad-leaved chestnut towers;—
Still musing in the long, lush, languid hours,—
As in a dream I heard the tinkling bells
Of far-off kine, glimpsed through the verdurous sheen,
Blent with faint bleatings from the distant croft,—
The bee-throngs murmurous in the golden fern,
The wood-doves veiled by depths of flickering green,—
And near me, where the wild “queen fairies” burn,
The thrush's bridal passion, warm and soft!
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