I
Young man with the keen blue eyes,
Clear and bold!
Why, as thou dost fare,
With so searching air,
Scannest thou each face thou dost behold,
Each small flower, faint-coloured like the skies,
Growing by the way? Why gazest thou
O’er the round hill’s brow?
“Ah, in every bearded face,
Looking deep,
My heart’s friend seek I!
In each maiden shy
My heart’s dearest, dreamed upon in sleep;
And in each fair flower a hope I trace;
And the hill may hide the flashing sea
That doth call to me!”