Lynton Verses

Sweet breeze that sett'st the summer birds a swaying,
Dear lambs amid the primrose meadows playing
  Let me not think!
  O floods, upon whose brink
The merry birds are maying,
Dream, softly dream! O blessed mother lead me
Unsevered from thy girdle — lead me! feed me!
  I have no will but shine;
  I need not but the juice
  Of elemental wine—
  Perish remoter use
Of strength reserved for conflict yet to come!
Let me be dumb,
  As long as I may feel thy hand—
  This, this is all—do ye not understand
How the great Mother mixes all our bloods ?
O breeze! O swaying buds!
O lambs, O primroses, O floods!