A Pleasant Place

Now Summer comes, and I with staff in hand
Will hie me to the sabbath of her joys, —
To heathy spots, and the unbroken land
Of woodland heritage, unknown to noise
And toil; — save many a playful band
Of dancing insects, that well understand
The sweets of life, and with attuned voice
Sing in sweet concert to the pleasant May.
There by a little bush I'll listening rest,
To hear the nightingale, a lover's lay
Chaunt to his mate, who builds her careless nest
Of oaken leaves, on thorn-stumps, mossed and grey;
Feeling, with them, I too am truly blest
By making sabbaths of each common day.