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)