Come ye, come ye, to the green, green wood;
Loudly the blackbird is singing,
The squirrel is feasting on blossom and bud,
...
Poet.
Oh! golden, golden summer,
What is it thou hast done?
With thy fiercely burning sun.
...
And is the swallow gone?
Who beheld it?
Which way sail?d it?
Farewell bade it none?
...