62 POETRY OF 
Or decking the fountain 
In forest dells, 
Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gay, 
And nodding and laughing the live-long day, 
When chiming our lullaby, tired with play. 
Are we not beautiful? O! are not we 
The darlings of mountain, and moorland, and 
lea? 
Plunge in the forest—are we not fair? 
Go to the high road—we’!] meet ye there, 
O! where is the flower that content may tell 
Like the laughing, and nodding, and dancing 
Harebell. 
TO A NARCISSUS IN JANUARY. 
How beautiful art thou, my Winter-Flower! 
Lifting with graceful pride thy stately head, 
Heavy with its rich crown of pearl and gold :— 
Thou sheddest on the air such soft perfume 
That I could deem ’was incense, gently flung 

