She had some idea that it would be pleasant to go up to the church town, but just where the trees and underwood came near to the shingle a little bird singing on a May-thorn beguiled her to listen.
How heavenly o'er my frame steals the life-breath Of beautiful Spring! who with her amorous gales Kissing the violets, each stray sweet exhales Of May-thorn, and the wild flower on the heath. I love thee, virgin daughter of the year! Yet, ah! not cups, dyed like the dawn, impart Their elves' dew-nectar to a fainting heart!
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