I would not be
A voyager on the windy seas:
More sweet to me
This bank where crickets chirp, and bees
Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.
I would not bide
On lonely heights where shepherds dwell.
At twilight tide
The sounds that from the valley swell,
Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell,
Are sweeter far
Than music of cold mountain rills.
The evening star
Wakes love and song below, but chills
With mist and breeze the gloomy hills.
I would not woo
Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair.
Soft eyes of blue
And sudden blushes unaware
Do net my heart in silken snare.
I do not love
The eyrie, but low woodland nest
Of cushat dove:
Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest
And sleep in grassy meadow's breast.