The morning opens very freshly gay <br />And life itself is in the month of May. <br />With green my fancy paints an arbour o'er <br />And flowrets with a thousand colours more; <br />Then falls to weaving that, and spreading these <br />And softly shakes them with an easy breeze, <br />With golden fruit adorns the bending shade, <br />Or trails a silver water o'er its bed. <br />Glide, gentle water, still more gently by <br />While in this summer-bower of bliss I lye <br />And sweetly sing of sense delighting flames, <br />And nymphs and shepherds soft invented names, <br />Or view the branches which around me twine <br />And praise their fruit, diffusing sprightly wine, <br />Or find new pleasures in the world to praise <br />And still with this return adorn my lays; <br />'Range round your gardens of eternal spring, <br />'Go range my senses while I sweetly sing.' <br /> <br />In vain, in vain alas, seduc'd by ill <br />And acted wildly by the force of will! <br />I tell my soul it will be constant May, <br />And Charm a season never made to stay, <br />My beauteous arbour will not stand a storm, <br />The world but promises, and can't perform: <br />Then fade ye leaves and wither all ye flow'rs, <br />I'll doat no longer in enchanted bow'rs; <br />But sadly mourn in melancholy song, <br />The vain conceits that held my soul so long. <br />The lusts that tempt us with delusive show, <br />And sin brought forth for everlasting woe. <br />Thus shall the notes to sorrow's object rise, <br />While frequent rests procure a place for sighs; <br />And as I moan upon the naked plain, <br />Be this the burthen closing ev'ry strain; <br />Return my senses, range no more abroad, <br />He'll only find his bliss, who seeks for God.<br /><br />Thomas Parnell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-happiness-in-this-life/
