I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill

    The air was cooling， and so very still，

    That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

    Pull droopingly， in slanting¹ curve aside，

    Their scantly-leaved， and finely-tapering stems，

    Had not yet lost their starry³ diadems⁴

    Caught from the early sobbing⁵ of the morn.

    The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn，

    And fresh from the clear brook⁶； sweetly they slept

    On the blue fields of heaven， and then there crept

    A little noiseless noise among the leaves，

    Born of the very sigh that silence heaves：

    For not the faintest motion could be seen

    Of all the shades that slanted⁷ o'er the green.

    There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye，

    To peer about upon variety；

    Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim，

    And trace the dwindled⁸ edgings of its brim；

    To picture out the quaint⁹， and curious bending

    Of the fresh woodland alley¹⁰ never-ending；

    Or by the bowery clefts¹¹， and leafy shelves，

    Guess where the jaunty¹² streams refresh themselves.

    I gazed awhile， and felt as light and free

    As though the fanning wings of Mercury

    Had play'd upon my heels： I was light-hearted，

    And many pleasures to my vision started；

    So I straightway began to pluck a posey

    Of luxuries bright， milky¹³， soft， and rosy¹⁴.

    A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them；

    Ah， sure no tasteful nook would be without them；

    And let a lush laburnum oversweep them，

    And let long grass grow round the roots， to keep them

    Moist， cool， and green； and shade the violets，

    That they may bind¹⁵ the moss¹⁶ in leafy nets.

    A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined，

    And clumps¹⁷ of woodbine taking the soft wind

    Upon their summer thrones； there too should be

    The frequent chequer of a youngling tree，

    That with a score of light green brethren shoots

    From the quaint mossiness of aged¹⁸ roots：

    Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters，

    Babbling¹⁹ so wildly of its lovely daughters，

    The spreading blue-bells： it may haply mourn

    That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

    From their fresh beds， and scatter'd thoughtlessly

    By infant hands， left on the path to die.

    Open afresh your round of starry folds，

    Ye ardent²⁰ marigolds！

    Dry up the moisture from your golden lids，

    For great Apollo bids

    That in these days your praises should be sung

    On many harps²¹， which he has lately strung；

    And when again your dewiness he kisses，

    Tell him， I have you in my world of blisses：

    So haply when I rove in some far vale，

    His mighty²² voice may come upon the gale²³.

    Here are sweet peas， on tip-toe for a flight

    With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white，

    And taper² fingers catching²⁴ at all things，

    To bind them all about with tiny rings.

    Linger awhile upon some bending planks²⁵

    That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks，

    And watch intently Nature's gentle doings：

    They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings.

    How silent comes the water round that bend！

    Not the minutest whisper does it send

    To the o'erhanging sallows： blades of grass

    Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.

    Why， you might read two sonnets²⁶， ere they reach

    To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

    A natural sermon o'er their pebbly²⁷ beds；

    Where swarms²⁸ of minnows show their little heads，

    Staying their wavy²⁹ bodies 'gainst the streams，

    To taste the luxury of sunny beams

    Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle

    With their