ve laid their wrath.

Again:

The woods I'll wander through,
From men I'll flee away,
With lonely doves I'll coo,
And with the wild things stay.
When life's the prey of misery,
And all my powers depart,
A leafy grave will be
Far kinder than thy heart.

True lyrist, he gave Nature her full right in his feelings, and found
comfort in return; but, as Goethe said of him, gifted but unsteady as
he was, 'He did not know how to restrain himself, and so his life and
poetry melted away.'

Among those who made use of better material than the Silesian poets,
H. Barthold Brockes stood first. Nature was his one and only subject;
but in this he was not original, he was influenced by England. While
France was dictating a taste like the baroque, and Germany
enthusiastically adopting it (every petty prince in the land copied
the gardens at Versailles, Schwetzingen more closely than the rest),
a revolution which affected all Europe was brought about by England.
The order of the following dates is significant: William Kent, the
famous garden artist, died in 1748, James Thomson in the same year,
Brockes a year earlier; and about the same time the imitations of
Robinson Crusoe sprang up like mushrooms.

We have considered Shakespeare's plays; English lyrists too of the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries shewed deep feeling for Nature, and
invested scenery with their own feelings in a very delicate way.

G. Chaucer (1400) praises the nightingale s song in _From the Floure
and Leafe_:

So was I with the song
Thorow ravished, that till late and long
Ne wist I in what place I was ne where; ...
And at the last, I gan full well aspie
Where she sat in a fresh grene laurer tree
On the further side, even right by me,
That gave so passing a delicious smell
According to the eglentere full well....

On the sote grass
I sat me downe, for, as for mine entent,
The birddes song was more convenient,
And more pleasant to me by many fold
Than meat or drink or any other thing.

Thomas Wyatt (1542) says of his lady-love:

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection
So that I am past remedy.

Robert Southwell (1595), in _Love's Servile Lott_, compares love to
April:

May never was the month for love,
For May is full of floures,
But rather Aprill, wett by kinde,
For love is full of showers....
Like winter rose and summer