WITHIN a wood, no farther from the sea
Than you might hear the waves dash audibly,
These flowers grew; the high hills, closing round,
Made of the little dell a fairy ground
For warmth and greenness; never winter dare
Invade the softness of its tranquil air.
Adown the wood a lucent stream doth brawl,
And earliest here the welcome cuckoos call;
In the far distance white-sail'd vessels ride,
Or tiny fleets of fishers deck the tide.
My picture is too faint, but it may bring
Some image to you of the scenes I sing.