Now is the perfect moment of the year.
    Half naked branches, half a mist of green,
Vivid and delicate the slopes appear;
    The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen,

And in the temperate sun we feel no fear;
    Of all the hours which shall be and have been,
It is the briefest as it is most dear,
    It is the dearest as the shortest seen.

O it was best, belovèd, at the first.—
    Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight
Was steady; on our senses scarce had burst
    The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight. . .

I seek that clime, unknown, without a name,
    Where first and best and last shall be the same. 

A river in Wales