Drew downward: but all else of Heaven was pure And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; The redcap whistled, and the nightingale Sang loud, as though he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, "Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song? Or have they any sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have ?” For which to praise the heavens but only love, Lightly he laughed, as one that read my thought, Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew The garden stretches southward. In the midst The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. "Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house." He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, "Look! look!" Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape- A single stream of all her soft brown hair Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist Ah, happy shade-and still went wavering down, So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her: "Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Less exquisite than thine." She look'd but all Suffused with blushes-neither self-possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sweet answer, though no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, I, that whole day, Saw her no more, although I linger'd there So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. ," said he, "will you climb the top of Art. Now," You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,—the Master, Love, So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, To greet their fairer sisters of the East. |