To the Sun-Lit Mead
Oh! I can’t my beloved, if you would!
Fly, or clamber to the sun-lit mead
In the jade heights of there, the eastern-woods;
We’d sprint to the upper cedars
And down to the gorge is grave;
Sit by the frozen snows
Stand ‘neath the white-cloud;
Recline over the tall turf, and mutely listen to the vale;
Talk to the dwelling shepherds,
Kiss, cuddle their she-sheep;
They serve us tea,
And shall smile, and would love.
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