Here in the sultriest season let him rest,

Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees;

Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast,[fa]

From Heaven itself he may inhale the breeze:

The plain is far beneath—oh! let him seize

Pure pleasure while he can; the scorching ray

Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease:

Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay,

And gaze, untired, the Morn—the Noon—the Eve away.