Morn, Wak'd By The Circling

For To Interpose A Little Ease, Let Our Frail Thoughts Dally With False Surmise.

Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks And Rivers Wide Towers And Battlements It Sees Bosom'd High In Tufted Trees, Where Perhaps Some Beauty Lies, The Cynosure Of Neighboring Eyes.

Come Knit Hands, And Beat The Ground In A Light Fantastic Round

When The New Light Which We Beg For Shines In Upon Us, There Be [those] Who Envy And Oppose, If It Come Not First In At Their Casements.

Sweet Bird, That Shun The Noise Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy!