Sheisunhappy，sleepy。Here，athousandhamletslaughbytheriver’sside。Ourskieslaugh；everythingishappy；everythinglives。FromthemonthofMay，whenourjoyoussummerarrives，forsixmonthstheheavensresoundwithmusic。Athousandnightingalessingallthenightthrough……Yourgrandoperaissilent，whileourconcertisinitsfulleststrain。”
Thepoemendswithaconfessiononthepartofthepoetofsundrypilferingscommittedbyhimselfinthesameplacewhenaboy——ofapple-treesbroken，hedgesforced，andvine-laddersscaled，windingupwiththewords：”Madame，youseeIturntowardsthepastwithoutablush；
willyou?WhatIhaverobbedIreturn，andreturnwithusury。
Ihavenodoortomyvineyard；onlytwothornsbaritsthreshold。
When，throughaholeIseethenosesofmarauders，insteadofarmingmyselfwithacane，Iturnandgoaway，sothattheymaycomeback。Hewhorobbedwhenhewasyoung，mayinhisoldageallowhimselftoberobbedtoo。”Amostamicablesentiment，suretobepopularamongsttherisinggenerationofAgen。