Here's a dell that's sunny enough for laughing joy; Robins whistling clear enough From mossy woodpiles near enough, but where's my joy? Blithe in truth looks frost's blue eye And lovely blue the brook flits by, Red-faced sun and jewelled sloe And jest of old crow answering crow would all wake joy; But old time slyly all the while Checks the song and dims the smile, And sense so eager turns to shade, In silence stumbling through the glade. |