On a Proposed Trip South

They tell me on the morrow I must leave This winter eyrie for a southern flight And truth to tell I tremble with delight At thought of such unheralded reprieve.

E'er have I known December in a weave Of blanched crystal, when, thrice one short night Packed full with magic, and O blissful sight! N'er May so warmly doth for April grieve.

To in a breath's space wish the winter through And lo, to see it fading! Where, oh, where Is caract could endow this princely boon?

Yet I have found it and shall shortly view The lush high grasses, shortly see in air Gay birds and hear the bees make heavy droon.