“Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, / The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes; / And ’tis my faith that every flower / Enjoys the air it breathes.”

“The budding twigs spread out their fan, / To catch the breezy air; / And I must think, do all I can, / That there was pleasure there.”

“The birds around me hopp’d and play’d: / Their thoughts I cannot measure, / But the least motion which they made, / It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.”

“I heard a thousand blended notes, / While in a grove I [sat] reclined, / In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts / Bring sad thoughts to the mind.”