Thy favourite Bird is soaring still: <br />My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale; <br />The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill <br />All silent comes the balmy gale; <br />Yet, so lightly on its way, <br />Seems to whisper 'Holiday.' <br /> <br />The pathway flowers that bending meet <br />And give the Meads their yellow hue, <br />The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet <br />Reserve their fragrance all for you. <br />Why then, Lucy, why delay? <br />Let us share the Holiday. <br /> <br />Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid, <br />Are with unfeigned rapture seen, <br />To Beauty be the homage paid; <br />Come, claim the triumph of the Green. <br />Here's my hand, come, come away; <br />Share the merry Holiday. <br /> <br />A promise too my Lucy made, <br />(And shall my heart its claim resign?) <br />That ere May-flowers again should fade, <br />Her heart and hand should both be mine. <br />Hark 'ye, Lucy, this is May; <br />Love shall crown our Holiday.<br /><br />Robert Bloomfield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lucy-16/
