Gone were but the Winter,

Come were but the Spring,

I would go to a covert

Where the birds sing.

Where in the whitethom

Singeth a thrush,

And a robin sings

 In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents

 Are the budding boughs

 Arching high over

A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,

 And whispering air

Which sayeth softly:

“We spread no snare;

“Here dwell in safety,

Here dwell alone,

 With a clear stream

 And a mossy stone.

 “Here the sun shineth

Most shadily;

Here is heard an echo

Of the far sea,

Though far off it be.

Christina Rossetti (1847)