THE young spring night in all her virtue walks; I never knew myself so fallen in love. And she is kind; her eyes reveal it, where Soft blue she gazes through the windowed woods. Her touch is seraph sense; within it glide Primrosy coolness, bluebell-trembling shyness, Violet-benediction; if she speaks, It is a sigh unbosomed with such music That far and wide the forests and the farms Whisper, Arouse; 'tis God. Having this love, Poor cheating Folly, should I wait on you? |