To such divinity that soul and sense, Once more commingled in their source, are lost,

Canst thou descend to quench a vulgar thirst

With the mere dregs and rinsings of the world?

Well, if my nature find her pleasure so,
I am content, nor need to blush; I take
My little gift of being clean from God,
Not haggling for a better, holding it
Good as was ever any in the world,
My days as good and full of miracle.
I pluck my nutriment from any bush,
Finding out poison as the first men did
By tasting and then suffering, if I must.
Sometimes my bush burns, and some-
times it is

A leafless wilding shivering by the wall;
But I have known when winterbarberries
Pricked the effeminate palate with sur-
prise

Of savor whose mere harshness seemed divine.

"Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he,

"And woe, but they cost me dear!" She took the packet, and the smile Deepened down beneath the tear.

It deepened down till it reached her heart,

And then gushed up again,
And lighted her tears as the sudden sun
Transfigures the summer rain.

And the first Leaf, when it was opened,
Sang: "I am Walter the page,
And the songs I sing 'neath thy window
Are my only heritage."

And the second Leaf sang: "But i the land

That is neither on earth or sea, My lute and I are lords of more Than thrice this kingdom's fee."

And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!"

And ever it sang, "Be mine!"
Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter
And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!

At the first Leaf she grew pale enough
At the second she turned aside,
At the third, 't was as if a lily flushed
With a rose's red heart's tide.

"Good counsel gave the bird," said she, "I have my hope thrice o'er,