Lately on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose,
This early bud began to blush,
And did but half itself disclose;
I plucked it, though no better grown,
And now you see how full 'tis blown.

Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire,
And spreading so, would flame anon.
All that was meant by air or sun,
To the young flower, my breath has done.

If our loose breath so much can do,
What may the same in forms of love,
Of purest love, and music too,

Dear child of mine, the wealth of whose warm hair
Hangs like ripe clusters of the apricot,
Thy blue eyes, gazing, comprehend me not,
But love me, and for love alone I care;
Thou listenest with a shy and serious air,
Like some Sabrina from her weedy grot
Outpeeping coyly when the noon is hot
To watch some shepherd piping unaware.
'Twas not for thee I sang, dear child;—and yet
Would that my song could reach such ears as thine,
Pierce to young hearts unsullied by the fret
Of years in their white innocence divine;

My love she wore a muslin cap and trim[m] ed wi' ribbons blue
What time the trees were full o' sap and meadows cowslips new
In meadows and on meadow banks in baulks and clover too
The white horse daisy's stand in ranks all silvered wi' the dew

My love she wore a pleasant gown and owned a rosy face
The prettiest girl o' half the town the finest i' the place
Her waist was sweet and sweet her size fleshy and fair not tall
Bright as the milkmaids were her eyes her neck white as the wall

A muslin cap my love had on and trimmed wi' ribbons blue

Our love is like the soothing rain
That follows clouds and thunders,
It comes to fill the world again
With fresh and blooming wonders.
It sweeps away all baser things
That flourished once unthwarted,
And washes clean the low and mean
Until they glow transported.

Our love is like the kindly snow
That covers great and small things,
Whose very softness seems to throw
A glamor over all things.
It makes of every common spot
A holy thing and tender,
And every dark and ugly mark
Is hidden by its splendor.

Now leaps the lyric madness
From field and sheltered grove;
They sing about our gladness,
They celebrate our love.

Birds in the distant mountains
Among the pine and fir,
And laughing, leaping fountains,
Are eloquent of her.

Breezes that thread the passes
Of forests far above,
And leaves among the grasses,
Whisper about our love.

Rivers and brooks are theming
Our numbers amorous,
And lakes that lie a-dreaming
Murmur and muse of us.

Bells in the parish steeple
Chant us with ringing tongues,

“The river turns to the peaceful breast
Of the brooding sea,
The red-bird turns to his mate in the nest,
The bud to the bee;
Oh learn, my love, from this sweet unrest—
And turn to me.

“The twilight sinks in the arms of sleep
At the day's decline;
The spent winds softly sink as they weep
In the arms of the pine—
Come down, oh love, from your frowning steep
And sink into mine.

“The breeze has a tale for the ear of the rose,
And her fragrance is stirred;
The Spring has a secret that everyone knows—
But I have not heard;

There is no Death to conquer Spring
And tear us with an unknown pain—
For she will always come to sing
The ancient throbbing back again.
And love, once gained, will live and bring
With every year a fairer flower;
Then why is Youth the only thing
That comes and dies within an hour!

Love is a sirrup; and who er'e we see
Sick and surcharg'd with this sacietie:
Shall by this pleasing trespasse quickly prove,
Ther's loathsomnesse e'en in the sweets of love.

Victorious beauty, though your eyes
Are able to subdue an hoast,
And therefore are unlike to boast

The taking of a little prize,
Do not a single heart dispise.

It came alone, but yet so arm'd
With former love, I durst have sworne
That where a privy coat was worne,
With characters of beauty charm'd,
Thereby it might have scapt unharm'd.

But neither steele nor stony breast
Are proof against those lookes of thine,
Nor can a Beauty lesse divine
Of any heart be long possest,
Where thou pretend'st an interest.

An hour before the challenging gleam
Of dawn that heralds the day,
My love awoke in the midst of a dream
And turned to where I lay.

I felt her breath grow wild and warm
And her arms about me twine,
And she whispered a name as she turned to my arm—
A name that was not mine.

And then she slept at my breast as fast
As though she were never so dear;
But I knew that the glory of Love had passed,
And I knew that the end was near.