There is the grasshopper, my summer friend—The minute sound of many a sunny hourPassed on a thymy hill, when I could sendMy soul in search thereof by bank and bower,Till lured far from it by a foxglove flower,Nodding too dangerously above the crag,Not to excite the passion and the powerTo climb the steep, and down the blossom drag;Then the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag.Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome,Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern,And creeps the ivy; with the wish to roam,He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn,'Mid chalices with dews in every urn;All flying things alike delight have found—Where’er I gaze, to what new region turn,Ten thousand insects in the air abound,Flitting on glancing wings that yield a summer’s sound.Jeremiah Holme Wiffin, 1792–1836.
There is the grasshopper, my summer friend—The minute sound of many a sunny hourPassed on a thymy hill, when I could sendMy soul in search thereof by bank and bower,Till lured far from it by a foxglove flower,Nodding too dangerously above the crag,Not to excite the passion and the powerTo climb the steep, and down the blossom drag;Then the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag.Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome,Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern,And creeps the ivy; with the wish to roam,He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn,'Mid chalices with dews in every urn;All flying things alike delight have found—Where’er I gaze, to what new region turn,Ten thousand insects in the air abound,Flitting on glancing wings that yield a summer’s sound.Jeremiah Holme Wiffin, 1792–1836.
There is the grasshopper, my summer friend—The minute sound of many a sunny hourPassed on a thymy hill, when I could sendMy soul in search thereof by bank and bower,Till lured far from it by a foxglove flower,Nodding too dangerously above the crag,Not to excite the passion and the powerTo climb the steep, and down the blossom drag;Then the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag.
There is the grasshopper, my summer friend—
The minute sound of many a sunny hour
Passed on a thymy hill, when I could send
My soul in search thereof by bank and bower,
Till lured far from it by a foxglove flower,
Nodding too dangerously above the crag,
Not to excite the passion and the power
To climb the steep, and down the blossom drag;
Then the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag.
Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome,Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern,And creeps the ivy; with the wish to roam,He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn,'Mid chalices with dews in every urn;All flying things alike delight have found—Where’er I gaze, to what new region turn,Ten thousand insects in the air abound,Flitting on glancing wings that yield a summer’s sound.Jeremiah Holme Wiffin, 1792–1836.
Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome,
Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern,
And creeps the ivy; with the wish to roam,
He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn,
'Mid chalices with dews in every urn;
All flying things alike delight have found—
Where’er I gaze, to what new region turn,
Ten thousand insects in the air abound,
Flitting on glancing wings that yield a summer’s sound.
Jeremiah Holme Wiffin, 1792–1836.