O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers
   And girt around its marge with nodding reeds;
      Like guardian angels o’er
      The circle of its shore
Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers
   Wave gently ’neath the wind that onward speeds.

Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten
   Cluster sweet violets nodding ’neath the breeze,
      And coronals of light
      With golden splendour bright
Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen
   To merry birds that sing amid the trees.

O happy spot!  I fain would linger ever
   About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign. 
      Of gazing on thy face I weary never,
      As fair and full of grace
As slumbering infant’s face,
   Or angel features which yet purer shine.

Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth,
   Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given;
      For unto all on earth
      Who win the second birth,
The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth,
   Which endless praise distil to God in heaven.

A Morning Greeting.

Arise, my beloved! the birds’ merry chorus
   Is heard ’mid the bourgeoning buds of the wold
Which smiles on the breast of the valley, while o’er us
   The sun tips the dewladen branches with gold. 
There comes from the meadows the scent of the clover,
   The banks are all hidden by daisies from sight,
Each nook with bright yellow the primroses cover,
   The trees in the orchards are curtained with white.

O rouse thee, my darling! come look at the swallow
   Which over the dingle is flying at will;
And hark to the song of the thrush in the hollow,
   And cuckoo’s clear cry on the side of the hill. 
On high in the heavens the glad lark is trilling
   The song which he lays at the footstool of morn;
My heart with strange gladness his music is thrilling,
   As down from the sky by the breezes ’tis borne.

Arise, my beloved! the lambs are all springing
   In frolic enjoyment the meadows among;
The stream through the valley its glad song is singing,
   And the young day laughs lightly its waters along. 
A robe of bright azure the clear sky is wearing
   And bathed are the mountains in myriads of rays,
The woodland its harp for the noon is preparing
   And hark, from its strings bursts a torrent of praise.

O rouse thee, my darling!  Come, let us be going,
   So soft is the breeze and so fragrant the air,
New health and new strength through our veins will be flowing,
   And sorrow will vanish and sadness and care! 
O banish the charms with which sloth would ensnare us,
   Far purer the joy in the sunshine that lurks,
All nature her pinions is spreading to bear us,
   And show us her Maker, revealed in His works.

ROBERT OWEN.