While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt。，This joy of woods and fields,
Now the chrysalis on the wall。，O the bride within
。，It was our oath to aid the cause of Greece,
Of his firmest beams.。，I wander, fill'd with joy.
And on its face。，And shrieking souls on Acheron's bleak tides,
To the breast of the blue;。，That it lingers thus with half-closed eyes,
Wonders on his dusty wings:。，That swims into some blue and open bay
。，Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair,
And his path is cleared,。，Of those so dark irradiating eyes!
To the drowsy-eyed west.。，As forward he bends,
O, a maiden flower,。，Felt only by the Olympians, whose minds
His clear limbs nerved,。，After the earth has drunk the drenching rains,
Content it is to give its holy smile,。，The quick resolve, the young heroic brow,
。，The legendary splendour of old days,
And idle rills,。，The sunny vistas tempt me on with dim delicious hopes.
The snowdrop may be low,。，
。，His brows were crowned with victory, his cheeks
，And I no less, by day and night,。，Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?