How may a grateful mortal speak his thanks
For such a day as this? The rillet plays
Between a paradise of lilied banks;
Cool, sheltered by a million moving sprays.
The early sweets of life, that long had been
Forgotten in the darkened days of pain,
Come back to give old charms to each new scene,
And withered hopes, like trees, grow green again.
Midmost the leafage of the bending lane,
Half hid in shade, half shining in the sun,
Rumbles the heavy, rocking farmer's wain;
And after it barefooted children run
To cheer the wagoner, and reach the hay
Plucked by the hedges; and old women sit
To knit in silence and to nod away
The hours on cottage-steps with noon-light lit.