First Love
O first love, — tender holy blind pure phase! —
For then it seemeth to the soul that one
And but one woman liveth, — that the sun
Finds but one blossom worthy of his gaze.
Is it a snowdrop? — Then by green hedge-ways
We think no gleaming rose-bush ever grew!
White is our flower, — so never harebells blue
The sun loved, nor the rich gorse' golden blaze!
Ah! — Some day blind eyes open and we see
On every side far fairer than the old
New blossoms springing, — marvelling we behold
Petunia, cowslip, heath, anemone: —
As from our heart a sudden veil is rolled, —
We revel in Woman's sweet diversity.
For then it seemeth to the soul that one
And but one woman liveth, — that the sun
Finds but one blossom worthy of his gaze.
Is it a snowdrop? — Then by green hedge-ways
We think no gleaming rose-bush ever grew!
White is our flower, — so never harebells blue
The sun loved, nor the rich gorse' golden blaze!
Ah! — Some day blind eyes open and we see
On every side far fairer than the old
New blossoms springing, — marvelling we behold
Petunia, cowslip, heath, anemone: —
As from our heart a sudden veil is rolled, —
We revel in Woman's sweet diversity.
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