Sonnet
When midst the summer-roses the warm bees Are swarming in the sun, and thou—so full Of innocent glee—dost with thy white hands pull Pink scented apples from the garden trees To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees, Like those who gather'd manna; and I cull Some hasty buds to pelt thee—white as wool Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;— Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone I have no speech,—no magic that beguiles, The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:— The dial cannot speak without the sun!