WHO loves to peer up at the morning sun,    
With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,    
Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek
For meadows where the little rivers run;
Who loves to linger with that brightest one    
Of Heaven–Hesperus–let him lowly speak    
These numbers to the night, and starlight meek,
Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.
He who knows these delights, and too is prone    
To moralise upon a smile or tear,
Will find at once a region of his own,    
A bower for his spirit, and will steer
To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone,    
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.