Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bow'rs, <br />Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth; <br />Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth, <br />In clam'rous revels waste the midnight hours; <br />Who, link'd in flaunting bands of mountain flow'rs, <br />Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth, <br />Ere the fierce Lord of Lustre rushes forth, <br />And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours! <br />Oft has your clanking cymbal's madd'ning strain, <br />Loud ringing through the torch-illumin'd grove, <br />Lur'd my lov'd Phaon from the youthful train, <br />Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove; <br />Then how can she his vagrant heart detain, <br />Whose Lyre throbs only to the touch of Love!<br /><br />Mary Darby Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-ix-ye-who-in-alleys-green/
