When Primroses Are Out In Spring, And Small, Blue Violets Come Between; When Merry Birds Sing On Boughs Green, And Rills, As Soon As Born, Must Sing; When Butterflies Will Make Side-Leaps, As Though Escaped From Nature'S Hand Ere Perfect Quite; And Bees Will Stand Upon Their Heads In Fragrant Deeps; When Small Clouds Are So Silvery White Each Seems A Broken Rimmed Moon, When Such Things Are, This World Too Soon, For Me, Doth Wear The Veil Of Night.