I. Clad On With Glowing Beauty And The Peace, Benign, Of Calm Maturity, She Stands Among Her Meadows And Her Orchard-Lands, And On Her Mellowing Gardens And Her Trees, Out Of The Ripe Abundance Of Her Hands Bestows Increase And Fruitfulness, As, Wrapped In Sunny Ease, Blue-Eyed And Blonde She Goes Upon Her Bosom Summer'S Richest Rose. Ii. And He Who Follows Where Her Footsteps Lead, By Hill And Rock, By Forest-Side And Stream, Shall Glimpse The Glory Of Her Visible Dream, In Flower And Fruit, In Rounded Nut And Seed: She, In Whose Path The Very Shadows Gleam; Whose Humblest Weed Seems Lovelier Than June'S Loveliest Flower, Indeed, And Sweeter To The Smell Than April'S Self Within A Rainy Dell. Iii. Hers Is A Sumptuous Simplicity Within The Fair Republic Of Her Flowers, Where You May See Her Standing Hours On Hours, Breast-Deep In Gold, Soft-Holding Up A Bee To Her Hushed Ear; Or Sitting Under Bowers Of Greenery, A Butterfly A-Tilt Upon Her Knee; Or Lounging On Her Hip, Dancing A Cricket On Her Finger-Tip. Iv. Ay, Let Me Breathe Hot Scents That Tell Of You; The Hoary Catnip And The Meadow-Mint, On Which The Honour Of Your Touch Doth Print Itself As Odour. Let Me Drink The Hue Of Iron-Weed And Mist-Flow'R Here That Hint, With Purple And Blue, The Rapture That Your Presence Doth Imbue Their Inmost Essence With, Immortal Though As Transient As A Myth. V. Yea, Let Me Feed On Sounds That Still Assure Me Where You Hide: The Brooks', Whose Happy Din Tells Where, The Deep Retired Woods Within, Disrobed, You Bathe; The Birds', Whose Drowsy Lure Tells Where You Slumber, Your Warm Nestling Chin Soft On The Pure, Pink Cushion Of Your Palm.. . What Better Cure For Care And Memory'S Ache Than To Behold You So, And Watch You Wake!