From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all. From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, There has fallen a splendid tear She is coming, my dove, my dear; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.' She is coming, my own, my sweet; My heart would hear her and beat, THE BROOK. COME from haunts of coot and hern, And sparkle out among the fern, By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow For men may come and men may go, II. I chatter over stony ways, With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. |