But dress in her, although indeed It perfect be, we do not heed, Because the face, the form, the air Are all so gentle and so rare.

Another day let slip! Its hours have run, Its golden hours, with prodigal excess, All run to waste. A day of life the less; Of many wasted days, alas, but one!

Through my west window streams the setting sun. I kneel within my chamber, and confess My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress, In place of honest joy for work well done.

At noon I passed some labourers in a field. The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face, Which shone like copper in the ardent glow. And one looked up, with envy unconcealed, Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace, Yet he was happier, though he did not know.

Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand, Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.

How can I work, when that seductive sky Smiles through the window, beautiful and bland, And seems to half entreat and half command My presence out of doors beneath its eye?

Will not the air be fresh, the water blue, The smell of beanfields, blowing to the shore, Better than these poor drooping purchased flowers? Good-bye, dull books! Hot room, good-bye to you! And think it strange if I return before The sea grows purple in the evening hours.

I hear a twittering of birds, And now they burst in song. How sweet, although it wants the words! It shall not want them long, For I will set some to the note Which bubbles from the thrush's throat.