LEIGH HUNT. 
451 
And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, 
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. 
Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze— 
Is but one joy expressed a thousand ways ; 
And honey from the flowers, and song from birds, 
Are from the poet’s pen his overflowing words. 
Ah, friends ! m-pthinks it were a pleasant sphere, 
If, like the trees, we blossomed every year; 
If locks grew thick again, and vernal dyes 
Returned in cheeks, and raciness in eye 9 
And all around us, vital to the tips, 
The human orchard laughed with cherry lips ! 
So natural is the wish, that bards gone by 
Have left it all in some immortal sigh. 
******* 
But see ! the weather calls me. Here’s a beo 
Comes bounding in my room imperiously. 
And, talking to himself, hastily burns 
About mine ear, and so in heat returns. 
0 little brethren of the fervid soul, 
Kissers of flowers, lords of the golden bowl, 
I follow to your fields and tufted brooks: 
Winter’s the time to which the poet looks 
For hiving his sweet thoughts, and making honeyed books. 
