Sonnet Written to Bouts-rimes (I sit among green shady valleys oft)

I sit among green shady valleys oft,
Listening to echo-winds sighing of woe;
The grass and flowers are strong and sweet below;
Yea I am tired, and the smooth turf is soft.
I sit and think, and never look aloft.
Save to the tops of a tall poplar-row
That glisten in the wind, whispering low
Of sudden sorrow reaching those who laught.
A very drowsy fountain bubbles near,
Catching pale sunbeams o'er it wandering;
Its waters are so clear the stones look through
Then, sitting by its lazy stream, I hear
Silence more loud than any other thing.
What time the trees weep o'er me honey-dew.