Tired of my kind, and weary of the town,
       How pleasant here to roam these orchard-bowers
        When grey Pilatus bares at eve his towers,
Or wreathes the clouds of morning for his crown;
How grateful, where the mower leaves unmown
        Red sorrel and the fragrant meadow-flowers,
        When all her milk-white shells the cherry
And the red walnut sheds her tassels down.

O happy land of blissfulness and rest!
    The blackbird sings, the redstarts flash and fly,
        Through clouds of blossom emerald waters shine;
        A better gift than fruitfulness is thine—
Thine is the balm to soothe an aching breast
    With hope of Eden’s old felicity!

(Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy, p. 13)