One minute past,

and Lethe-wards had sunk

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,--

That thou,

light-winged Dryad of the trees

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green,

and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance,

and Provencal song,

and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true,

the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,