A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waistAh, happy shade-and still went wavering down,

But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced

The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips,

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast

As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,

She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she,

a Rose

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tend

ance 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,

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on

lips

Less exquisite than thine.'

She look'd but all Suffused with blushes-neither self

possess'd

Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,

Divided in a graceful quiet-paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer

came,

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statuelike,

In act to render thanks.

I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white

star

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.

So home we went, and all the livelong

way

With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.

'Now,' said he, will you climb the top of Art.

You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match

My Juliet? you, not you,-the Master, Love,

A more ideal Artist he than all.'

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,

Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er,

And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving-such a noise of life

Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice

Call'd to me from the years to come, and such

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.

And all that night I heard the watchman

peal

The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,
Distilling odours on me as they went
To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir
to all,

Made this night thus. Henceforward

squall nor storm

Could keep me from that Eden where

she dwelt.

Light pretexts drew me sometimes a Dutch love

For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and

cream

Served in the weeping elm; and more and more

We spoke of other things; we coursed about

The subject most at heart, more near and near,

Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling

round

The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her,

Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own,
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift,
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved;
And in that time and place she answer'd
me,

And in the compass of three little words,
More musical than ever came in one,
The silver fragments of a broken voice,
Made me most happy, faltering, ‘I am
thine.'

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to