• Gone were but the Winter,
    Come were but the Spring,
    I would go to a covert
    Where the birds sing;

    Where in the whitethorn
    Singeth a thrush,
    And a robin sings
    In the holly-bush.

    Full of fresh scents
    Are the budding boughs
    Arching high over
    A cool green house:

    Full of sweet scents,
    And whispering air
    Which sayeth softly:
    We spread no snare;

    Here dwell in safety,
    Here dwell alone,
    With a clear stream
    And a mossy stone.

    Here the sun shineth
    Most shadily;
    Here is heard an echo
    Of the far sea,
    Though far off it be.

    Christina Rossetti (2008). “Poems and Prose”, p.11, OUP Oxford