TO A YOUNG LADY.
When Morn, in spring glory, Salutes the dull earth, How sweet is her story Of music and mirth.
The happy leaves glisten And tremble around, The young blossoms listen With joy to the sound.
They tell by their blushes, Their soft breathing proves, That night’s dewy hushes Promoted their loves.
The murmur of grasses, The singing of birds, In sweetness surpasses The compass of words.
Far away on the mountain The mist is on fire, And the joy of the fountain Can soar up no higher.
A tremor of gladness Pervadeth the air, And no touch of sadness Can rest anywhere.
We cease to be mortal In moments like this, And enter the portal Of absolute bliss.
At noon, and at even, We think of the morn, In the midst of whose heaven Such beauty is born.
’Tis thus I shall cherish Till life’s gloaming end, And never let perish The face of a friend.
Then come, gentle maiden, And dwell with the few That in my soul’s Aidenn I know to be true;—
Some distant, some sleeping The sleep of the just, Are here in the keeping Of memory’s trust.
With these let thy spirit Abide in its place, So shall I inherit New goodness and grace.