| "Ah, happy, happy boughs ! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring achieve.
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs forever new;
More happy love ! More happy, happy love !
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting and forever young;
All breathing human passion far alone,
That leaves a heart high – sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue." |
