Sweet thy inspiring breath, O cheerful Spring;
  When the meads cradle thee, and their soft airs
  Into the hearts of youths
  And hearts of virgins glide,
  Thou makest feeling conqueror.  Ah! through thee
  Fuller, more tremulous, heaves each blooming breast;
  With lips spell-freed by thee
  Young love unfaltering pleads. 
  Fair gleams the wine, when to the social change
  Of thought, or heart-felt pleasure, it invites,
  And the ‘Socratic’ cup
  With dewy roses bound,
  Sheds through the bosom bliss, and wakes resolves,
  Such as the drunkard knows not—­proud resolves
  Emboldening to despair
  Whate’er the sage disowns.

  Delightful thrills against the panting heart
  Fame’s silver voice—­and immortality
  Is a great thought.... 
  But sweeter, fairer, more delightful, ’tis
  On a friend’s arm to know oneself a friend.... 
  O were ye here, who love me though afar ... 
  How would we build us huts of friendship, here
  Together dwell for ever.

This is of Fredensborg on an August day: 

  Here, too, did Nature tarry, when her hand
  Pour’d living beauty over dale and hill,
  And to adorn this pleasant land
  Long time she lingered and stood still.... 
  The lake how tranquil!  From its level brim
  The shore swells gently, wooded o’er with green,
  And buries in its verdure dim
  The lustre of the summer e’en....

The inner and outer life are closely blended in The Early Grave: 

  Welcome, O silver moon,
  Fair still companion of the night! 
  Friend of the pensive, flee not soon;
  Thou stayest, and the clouds pass light.

  Young waking May alone
  Is fair as summer’s night so still,
  When from his locks the dews drop down,
  And, rosy, he ascends the hill.

  Ye noble souls and true,
  Whose graves with sacred moss are strawn. 
  Blest were I, might I see with you
  The glimmering night, the rosy dawn.

This is true lyric feeling, spontaneous, not forced.  Many of his odes, and parts of the Messias, shew great love for Nature.  There is a fine flight of imagination in The Festival of Spring: 

Not into the ocean of all the worlds would I plunge—­not hover where the first created, the glad choirs of the sons of light, adore, deeply adore and sunk in ecstasy.  Only around the drop on the bucket, only around the earth, would I hover and adore.  Hallelujah! hallelujah! the drop on the bucket flowed also out of the hand of the Almighty.

    When out of the hand of the Almighty the greater earth flowed,
    when the streams of light rushed, and the seven stars began to
    be—­then flowedst thou, drop, out of the hand of the Almighty.