This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, First named these notes a melancholy Thin grass and king-cups grow within strain. And many a poet echoes the conceit); Poet who hath been building up the rhyme the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many nightingales; and far and near, In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, When he had better far have stretched They answer and provoke each other's A most gentle Maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, Nature's sweet voices, always full of love cipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music! space, |