With thy strong tide of beauty I must go,
Where my love leads I follow in her tow;
And all my hope is that I sing for her
Fresh songs whose breath is April's all the year.

There, with the flowers and butterflies, and bees
That grumble more the more their blossoms please -
We'll live secure from this vain world's pretence,
Till we acquire a second innocence.

We'll shun all human scandal, though our words
May oft discuss the private life of birds;
And prying into every move and sound,
Surprise a bee before his blossom's found.