2. ‘The poet decamps to the country…’

The poet decamps to the country—admires—
Adores—in his soul is the music of lyres;
And as he approaches, the flowers, each bloom,
With complexions that put ruby’s colour to shame,
Hues to outdazzle the peacock’s tail,
Tiny golden blossoms, and ones blue-royal,
Take on—whilst swaying their welcoming face—
Now a shy, drooping air, now coquettish bold grace,
And, befitting such beauties, with friendliest sway
They say ‘See! Our lover is passing this way!’
And, light- and shade-filled, with voices half-heard,
The great, deep-limbed trees that abide in the wood—
All of those ancients: yews, linden, and maple,
The willows all gnarled, oaks most venerable,
Elms with black boughs that thick moss grows about—
Like Ulemas after the Mufti comes out,
They bow low before him, all bending to earth
Drop down leafy heads and their ivy-beards’ ruff,
See the light shine from his brow, calmly streaming,
Whispering soft: “It’s he! Master of dreaming!”