Coleridge. 
A LL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair-— 
^ The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing 
And Winter, slumbering in the open air, 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring I 
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow. 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, Oh ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, 
For me yc bloom not! glide, rich streams, away ! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow. I stroll; 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? 
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
And hope without an object cannot live. 
