Green-cupped the acorn, ripened the pear,
Grass, lily, jonquil sweeten the air;
Tendrilled convolvulus softly doth clamber;
To his Dame steps Sir Coney, with balm for her chamber;
Cry echoes cry—would my tongue could remember!

Away on his errand, in secret, runs Joy,
That wistful, naked, bud-ankleted boy.
Though never a feather in shade is seen,
Thin jargoning music wells out of the green.

On high in those branches bird-glancings espy
Foamed blue of ocean imbowled by the sky.
There the lustrous-locked sun in chair sits a-flame,
Illuming a region no sailor can name. . . .

Thule? Atlantis? Arcadia? . . . .