Yea, joy is near him, tho’ he does not know;
Her unregarded shape is at his side,
Her unheard voice is whispering clear and low,
Whom, resting never, seeks he far and wide.
So once it was with us, my heart! To-day
We will be glad because the leaves are green,
Because the fields are fair and soft with May,
Nor think on squandered springtimes that have been.
On the Wye in May.
NOW is the perfect moment of the year.
Half naked branches, half a mist of green,
Vivid and delicate the slopes appear;
The cool, soft air is neither fierce nor keen,
And in the temperate sun we feel no fear;
Of all the hours which shall be and have been,
It is the briefest as it is most dear,
It is the dearest as the shortest seen.
O it was best, belovèd, at the first.—
Our hands met gently, and our meeting sight
Was steady; on our senses scare had burst
The faint, fresh fragrance of the new delight....
I seek that clime, unknown, without a name,
Where first and best and last shall be the same.
Oh, is it Love?
