VIII.

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers! By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; O’er you the oak shed down the summer showers, And the lark’s nest was where your bright cups bent, Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen Of twilight stars. On you heaven’s eye hath been, Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you Hath murmur’d, and the rill. My soul grows faint With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint Your haunts by dell and stream--the green, the free, The full of all sweet sound--the shut from me!