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.'