Gone were but the Winter,
         Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
        Where the birds sing;

Where in the white-thorn
         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."