The cowslip standeth in the grass,
The primrose in the budding grove
Hath laid her pale fair breast
On the green sward to rest:
The vapours that cease not to rove
Athwart the blue sky, fleet and pass,
And ever o'er the golden sun
Their shadows run.

He is not in the glittering mead,
Stooping to fill his hands with flowers;
He is not in the wood
Plucking the primrose bud;
He doth not mark the bloomy hours,
The joy and May he doth not heed:
Under the church--wall in the shade
His bed is made.