I've fond anticipation of a day 
O'erfilled with pure diversion presently, 
For I must read a lady poesy 
The while we glide by many a leafy bay,

Hid deep in rushes, where at random play 
The glossy black winged May-flies, or whence flee 
Hush-throated nestlings in alarm, 
Whom we have idly frighted with our boat's long sway.

For, lest o'ersaddened by such woes as spring 
To rural peace from our meek onward trend, 
What else more fit? We'll draw the latch-string

And close the door of sense; then satiate wend, 
On poesy's transforming giant wing, 
To worlds afar whose fruits all anguish mend.