Like a soft white dove. Envy her now!

And when you talked to that padded thing And I passed you leisurely by, your bow

Was cold, not a flush nor fluttering.

IX.

Such foolish talk! while that one star still
Dwells o'er the mountain's margin-line

Till the dawn takes all; one may drink one's fill
Of such quiet; there's a whisper fine
In the leaves a-tremble, and now 'tis dumb;

We have lived long years, love, you and I,

And the heart grows faint, your lips, then:

come,

It were not so very hard to die.

* K

FROM APRIL TO OCTOBER.

I. BEAUTY.

The beauty of the world, the loveliness

Of woodland pools, which doves have coo'd to sleep,
Dreaming the noontide through beneath the deep
Of heaven; the radiant blue's benign caress,
When April clouds are rifted; buds that bless
Each little nook and bower, where the leaves keep
Dew and light shadow, and quick lizards peep

For sunshine, these, and the ancient stars no less,
And the sea's mystery of dusk and bright

Are but the curious characters that lie,
Priestess of Beauty, in thy robe of light.

Ah, where, divine One, is thy veiled retreat,
That I may creep to it and clasp thy feet,

And gaze in thy pure face though I should die?

II. TWO INFINITIES.

A lonely way, and as I went my eyes

Could not unfasten from the Spring's sweet things,
Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs and clings
In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose lies
In her own fairness, buried blooms surprise
The plunderer bee and stop his murmurings,
And the glad flutter of a finch's wings
Outstartle small blue-speckled butterflies.
Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile

My whole heart long; I loved each separate flower,
Kneeling. I looked up suddenly Dear God!
There stretched the shining plain for many a mile,
The mountains rose with what invincible power!

And how the sky was fathomless and broad!

III. THE DAWN.

The Dawn, O silence and wise mystery!

Was it a dream, the murmurous room, the glitter,

The tinkling songs, the dance, and that fair sitter I talk'd æsthetics to so rapturously?

Sweet Heaven, thy silentness and purity,

Thy sister-words of blame, not railings bitter,

With these great quiet leaves, and the light twitter Of small birds wakening in the greenery,

And one stream stepping quickly on its way

So well it knows the glad work it must do, Reclaim a wayward heart scarce answering true To that sweet strain of hours that closes May; How the pale marge quickens with pulsings new, O welcome to thy world thou fair, great day!

IV. THE SKYLARK.

There drops our lark into his secret nest!
All is felt silence and the broad blue sky;
Come, the incessant rain of melody

Is over; now earth's quietudes invest,

In cool and shadowy limit, that wild breast
Which trembled forth the sudden ecstasy
Till raptures grew too swift, and song must die
Since midmost deeps of heaven grew manifest.
My poet of the garden-walk last night

Sang in rich leisure, ceased and sang again,
Of pleasure in green leaves, of odours given
By flowers at dusk, and many a dim delight;
The finer joy was thine keen-edged with pain,
Soarer! alone with thy own heart and heaven.