Attending long in vain, I took the way
  Which through a path but scarcely printed lay;
  In narrow mazes oft it seem’d to meet,
  And look’d as lightly press’d by fairy feet. 
  Wandering I walk’d alone, for still methought
  To some strange end so strange a path was wrought: 
  At last it led me where an arbour stood, 60
  The sacred receptacle of the wood: 
  This place unmark’d, though oft I walk’d the green,
  In all my progress I had never seen: 
  And seized at once with wonder and delight,
  Gazed all around me, new to the transporting sight. 
  ’Twas bench’d with turf, and goodly to be seen,
  The thick young grass arose in fresher green: 
  The mound was newly made, no sight could pass
  Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass,
  The well-united sods so closely lay; 70
  And all around the shades defended it from day;
  For sycamores with eglantine were spread,
  A hedge about the sides, a covering overhead. 
  And so the fragrant brier was wove between,
  The sycamore and flowers were mixed with green,
  That nature seem’d to vary the delight,
  And satisfied at once the smell and sight. 
  The master workman of the bower was known
  Through fairy-lands, and built for Oberon;
  Who twining leaves with such proportion drew, 80
  They rose by measure, and by rule they grew;
  No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell;
  For none but hands divine could work so well. 
  Both roof and sides were like a parlour made,
  A soft recess, and a cool summer shade;
  The hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye
  The persons placed within it could espy;
  But all that pass’d without with ease was seen,
  As if nor fence nor tree was placed between. 
  ’Twas border’d with a field; and some was plain 90
  With grass, and some was sow’d with rising grain. 
  That (now the dew with spangles deck’d the ground)
  A sweeter spot of earth was never found. 
  I look’d, and look’d, and still with new delight;
  Such joy my soul, such pleasures fill’d my sight;
  And the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath,
  Whose odours were of power to raise from death. 
  Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care,
  Even though brought thither, could inhabit there: 
  But thence they fled as from their mortal foe; 100
  For this sweet place could only pleasure know.

    Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye,
  And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh. 
  The spreading branches made a goodly show,
  And full of opening blooms was every bough: 
  A goldfinch there I saw, with gaudy pride
  Of painted plumes, that hopp’d from side to side,
  Still pecking as she pass’d; and still she drew
  The sweets from every flower, and suck’d the dew: 
  Sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat, 110
  And tuned her voice to many a merry note,
  But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear,
  Yet such as soothed my soul, and pleased my ear.