When primroses are out in Spring, And small, blue violets come between; When merry birds sing on boughs green, And rills, as soon as born, must sing; When butterflies will make side-leaps, As though escaped from Nature's hand Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand Upon their heads in fragrant deeps; When small clouds are so silvery white Each seems a broken rimmèd moon -- When such things are, this world too soon, For me, doth wear the veil of Night. |