“
The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,The weary butterflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all the lassitude of happy things,Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood That gushes through my veins a languid flood, And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.
— EDMUND GOSSE