Sonnet LXXXI

HE may be envied, who with tranquil breastCan wander in the wild and woodland scene,When Summer's glowing hands have newly drestThe shadowy forests, and the copses green;Who, unpursued by care, can pass his hoursWhere briony and woodbine fringe the trees,On thymy banks reposing, while the beesMurmur "their fairy tunes in praise of flowers;"Or on the rock with ivy clad, and fernThat overhangs the osier-whispering bedOf some clear current, bid his wishes turnFrom this bad world; and by calm reason led,Knows, in refined retirement, to possessBy friendship hallow'd—rural happiness!