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, And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark green layers of shade. 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, And blown across the walk. One arm aloft Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape - A single stream of all her soft brown hair Ah, happy shade and still went wavering down, But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced And mix'd with shadows of the common ground! 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, 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. 66 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 Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm The daughters of the year, One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: Danced into light, and died into the shade ; |