Classic Poem

("Ionica," 1858, p. 81)

Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech,
Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye,
Tossing those river-pearled locks about,
Throwing those delicate limbs straight out,
Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach,
Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly.

Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply,
Answer disdainfully, flouting my words:
How should the listener at simple sixteen
Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean
Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"--
Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds?

Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range
Close to a sister's engarlanded brows,
Over the diamonds a mother will wear,
In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.--
Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change,
Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs!

Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet,
Walk through some passionless years by my side,
Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk,
Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk.
When the sap stays, and the blossom is set,
Others will take the fruit, I shall have died.