As yet a vague delight is all I know, A sense of joy so wild 't is almost pain, And like a trouble drives me to and fro, And will not pause to count its own sweet gain.
I am so happy! that is all my thought.
To-morrow I will turn it round and round, And seek to know its limits and its ground.
To-morrow I will task my heart to learn The duties which shall spring from such a seed, And where it must be sown, and how be wrought.
But oh! this reckless bliss is bliss indeed!
And for one day I choose to seal the urn Wherein is shrined Love's missal and his creed.
Meantime I give my fancy all it craves; Like him who found the West when first he caught The light that glittered from the world he sought, And furled his sails till Dawn should show the land; While in glad dreams he saw the ambient waves Go rippling brightly up a golden strand.
Hath there not been a softer breath at play In the long woodland aisles than often sweeps At this rough season through their solemn deeps-- A gentle Ariel sent by gentle May, Who knew it was the morn On which a hope was born, To greet the flower e'er it was fully blown, And nurse it as some lily of her own?
And wherefore, save to grace a happy day, Did the whole West at blushing sunset glow With clouds that, floating up in bridal snow, Passed with the festal eve, rose-crowned, away?
And now, if I may trust my straining sight, The heavens appear with added stars to-night, And deeper depths, and more celestial height, Than hath been reached except in dreams or death.
Hush, sweetest South! I love thy delicate breath; But hush! methought I felt an angel's kiss!
Oh! all that lives is happy in my bliss.
That lonely fir, which always seems As though it locked dark secrets in itself, Hideth a gentle elf, Whose wand shall send me soon a frolic troop Of rainbow visions, and of moonlit dreams.
Can joy be weary, that my eyelids droop?
To-night I shall not seek my curtained nest, But even here find rest.
Who whispered then? And what are they that peep Betwixt the foliage in the tree-top there?
Come, Fairy Shadows! for the morn is near, When to your sombre pine ye all must creep; Come, ye wild pilots of the darkness, ere My spirit sinks into the gulf of Sleep; Even now it circles round and round the deep-- Appear! Appear!
Flower-Life
I think that, next to your sweet eyes, And pleasant books, and starry skies, I love the world of flowers; Less for their beauty of a day, Than for the tender things they say, And for a creed I've held alway, That they are sentient powers.
It may be matter for a smile-- And I laugh secretly the while I speak the fancy out-- But that they love, and that they woo, And that they often marry too, And do as noisier creatures do, I've not the faintest doubt.
And so, I cannot deem it right To take them from the glad sunlight, As I have sometimes dared; Though not without an anxious sigh Lest this should break some gentle tie, Some covenant of friendship, I Had better far have spared.
And when, in wild or thoughtless hours, My hand hath crushed the tiniest flowers, I ne'er could shut from sight The corpses of the tender things, With other drear imaginings, And little angel-flowers with wings Would haunt me through the night.
Oh! say you, friend, the creed is fraught With sad, and even with painful thought, Nor could you bear to know That such capacities belong To creatures helpless against wrong, At once too weak to fly the strong Or front the feeblest foe?
So be it always, then, with you; So be it--whether false or true-- I press my faith on none; If other fancies please you more, The flowers shall blossom as before, Dear as the Sibyl-leaves of yore, But senseless, every one.
Yet, though I give you no reply, It were not hard to justify My creed to partial ears; But, conscious of the cruel part, My rhymes would flow with faltering art, I could not plead against your heart, Nor reason with your tears.
A Summer Shower
Welcome, rain or tempest From yon airy powers, We have languished for them Many sultry hours, And earth is sick and wan, and pines with all her flowers.
What have they been doing In the burning June?
Riding with the genii?
Visiting the moon?
Or sleeping on the ice amid an arctic noon?
Bring they with them jewels From the sunset lands?
What are these they scatter With such lavish hands?
There are no brighter gems in Raolconda's sands.
Pattering on the gravel, Dropping from the eaves, Glancing in the grass, and Tinkling on the leaves, They flash the liquid pearls as flung from fairy sieves.
Meanwhile, unreluctant, Earth like Danae lies; Listen! is it fancy, That beneath us sighs, As that warm lap receives the largesse of the skies?
Jove, it is, descendeth In those crystal rills; And this world-wide tremor Is a pulse that thrills To a god's life infused through veins of velvet hills.
Wait, thou jealous sunshine, Break not on their bliss; Earth will blush in roses Many a day for this, And bend a brighter brow beneath thy burning kiss.
Baby's Age
She came with April blooms and showers; We count her little life by flowers.
As buds the rose upon her cheek, We choose a flower for every week.
A week of hyacinths, we say, And one of heart's-ease, ushered May; And then because two wishes met Upon the rose and violet-- I liked the Beauty, Kate, the Nun-- The violet and the rose count one.
A week the apple marked with white; A week the lily scored in light; Red poppies closed May's happy moon, And tulips this blue week in June.
Here end as yet the flowery links; To-day begins the week of pinks; But soon--so grave, and deep, and wise The meaning grows in Baby's eyes, So VERY deep for Baby's age-- We think to date a week with sage!
The Messenger Rose
If you have seen a richer glow, Pray, tell me where your roses blow!
Look! coral-leaved! and--mark these spots Red staining red in crimson clots, Like a sweet lip bitten through In a pique. There, where that hue Is spilt in drops, some fairy thing Hath gashed the azure of its wing, Or thence, perhaps, this very morn, Plucked the splinters of a thorn.
Rose! I make thy bliss my care!
In my lady's dusky hair Thou shalt burn this coming night, With even a richer crimson light.
To requite me thou shalt tell-- What I might not say as well-- How I love her; how, in brief, On a certain crimson leaf In my bosom, is a debt Writ in deeper crimson yet.
If she wonder what it be-- But she'll guess it, I foresee-- Tell her that I date it, pray, From the first sweet night in May.
On Pressing Some Flowers