Classic Poem

On tree-topped hill, on tufted green
While yet Aurora's vest is seen,
Before the sun has left the sea,
Let the fresh morning breathe on me.

To furze-blown heath, or pasture mead,
Do thou my happy footsteps lead;
Then show me to the pleasing stream,
Of which at night so oft I dream.

At noon the mazy wood I'll tread,
With autumn leaves and dry moss spread;
And cooling fruits for thee prepare,
For sure I think thou wilt be there.

Till birds begin their evening song,
With thee the time seems never long;
O let us speak our love that's past,
And count how long it has to last.

I'll say eternally, and thou
Shall only look as kind as now;
I ask no more, for that affords
What is not in the force of words.