`Know, Nature, like the cuckoo, laughs at law,

From thy soft touch and glance unspeakableCompelled to turn and suffer other skies.E’en as I leave thee, the maternal vineUnder the weight of clustering fruitage bends;And the plump fig, beyond where tendrils twine,Shows greener, moister, as the sap ascends.When I return, as I most surely will,Me will salute the thirst-dispelling grape,Purple or opal, and when…

The air resounds and the woodland rings,Cuckoo! Cuckoo!Leave the milking pail and the mantling cream,And down by the meadow, and up by the stream,Where movement is music and life a dream,In the month when sings the cuckoo.Away with old Winter’s frowns and fears,Cuckoo! Cuckoo!Now May with a smile dries April’s tears.Cuckoo!When the bees are humming…

Breeze! O breeze! that fannest the forlorn!Oh linger by the lattice of sweet Blanche of mine!Breeze! coy breeze! that loiterest for noon!Breeze! true breeze! that hast a tryst with June!Breeze! kind breeze! I beg of thee a boon!Oh peep in through the lattice of poor Blanche of mine!Breeze! fleet breeze! that goest with the day!Breeze!…

While I still see sun and moon,Grant to me this simple boon:As I sit on craggy seat,And your kids and young lambs bleat,Let who on the pierced pipe blowsPlay the sweetest air he knows.And, when I no more shall hearGrasshopper or chanticleer,Strew green bay and yellow broomOn the silence of my tomb;And, still giving as…

But with mortals when it stays,These are its unerring ways.ILove builds secret, half afraid,In the covert, in the shade,Fostering, where none know it is,Solitary gladnesses.Pry not on its brooding breast,Lest it should desert its nest.Then, all seen, you naught can save;‘Twas a cradle;-’tis a grave.IILove loves tumult closed with rest,Spreads its wings and bares its…

To whom I owed the simple goodOf three days’ peace, three nights’ repose.My sumpter-mule did blink and blink;Was nothing more to munch or quaff;Antonio, far too wise to think,Leaned vacantly upon his staff.It was the childhood of the year:Bright was the morning, blithe the air;And in the choir I plain could hearThe monks still chanting…