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'Tis more than Fancy weeps the cost
Of such a type to Nature lost.
There are conversions of the eye;
Tumultuary accesses,
Obtained ere passion can deny
Into the soul's recesses,
May make a flower of this pure sense,
A teacher above recompense.
And what for childhood's opening heart,
Perceptions ever growing,
What might not such a fount impart,
Perpetually flowing,
Besprinkling field and rock and lane
With wisdom of this English strain?
O gay Italian land, to me
In all thy wondrous glory
Is something still I fain would see,
More staid, less transitory,
A charm my heart has often found
Couched in the Daisy's simple round.
