I've fond anticipation of a day
O'erfilled with pure diversion presently
For I must read a lady poesy
The while we glide by many a leafy bay
Hid deep in rushes, where at random play
The glossy black winged May-flies, or whence flee
Hush-throated nestlings in alarm
Whom we have idly frighted with our boat's long sway
For, lest o'ersaddened by such woes as spring
To rural peace from our meek onward trend
What else more fit? We'll draw the latch-string
And close the door of sense; then satiate wend
On poesy's transforming giant wing
To worlds afar whose fruits all anguish mend