On Leigh Hunt's Poem 'The Story of Rimini'

Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,

      With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,

      Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek

For meadows where the little rivers run;

Who loves to linger with that brightest one

      Of Heaven—Hesperus—let him lowly speak

      These numbers to the night, and starlight meek,

Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.

He who knows these delights, and too is prone

      To moralize upon a smile or tear,

Will find at once a region of his own,

      A bower for his spirit, and will steer

To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone,

      Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.