#41x29

Wednesday, May 4, 2022

Gone were but the Winter, come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert where the birds sing; where in the whitethorn singeth a thrush, and a robin sings in the holly-bush.   Full of fresh scents are the budding boughs arching high over a cool green house; full of sweet scents, and whispering air which sayeth softly:   "We spread no snare; here dwell in safety, here dwell alone, with a clear stream and a mossy stone. Here the sun shineth most shadily; here is heard an echo of the far sea, though far off it be."