Turnk of the lamb in the fields of May 
Cropping the dewy flowers for play; 
Think of the sunshine, warm and clear; 
Of the bending corn in golden ear; 
Of little children singing low 
Through flowery meadows as they go; 
Of cooing doves, and the hum of bees 
*Mong the lime-trees’ yellow racimes ; 
Of the pebbly waters gliding by, 
Of the woodbird’s peaceful sylvan cry, 
Then turn thy thought to a land of snow 
Where the cutting icy wind doth blow— 
