You well-compacted groves, whose light and shade, Mix'd equally, produce nor heat nor cold, Either to burn the young or freeze the old, But to one even temper being made, Upon a green embroidering through each glade An airy silver and a sunny gold, So clothe the poorest that they do behold Themselves in riches which can never fade; While the wind whistles, and the birds do sing, While your twigs clip, and while the leaves do friss, While the fruit ripens which those trunks do bring, Senseless to all but love, do you not spring Pleasure of such a kind as truly is A self-renewing vegetable bliss? |