She came with lovely mien—
The charms of fairy’s art—
No winsomer was seen,
Not Titania, her queen.
She flew into my heart
To rest, and ne’er depart.
My heart is beating high—
The fay is singing there.
Blest tenant, tell me why,
Of mortals, why am I
The happy one to dare
Make captive, fay so rare?
She answered in a song,—
So soft and sweet the tune—
“Pray, why? Have I done wrong
To hide in heart so strong?
Where I may place the boon
Of all the joys of June?”
Oh, winsome, witching sprite,
Who like a mortal came,
In robe of tender light,
To make my hours so bright;
Who brought me Love’s dear fame,
To warm me at its flame.
A SONG
My love is morning’s fragrance blown
From blossoms fair in golden June;
Her footstep’s rhythm is in tune
With melodies by Springtime known.
Her misty locks are like the May,
On pearly hedges lightly thrown;
A sweeter face was never shown
To man that he might face the day!
O beauty, tender, like the moon
Of summer nights, which gently lay
On lovers when their hearts were gay,
And deep desire was at its noon.
THE GARDENER
I see her in the blooming field,
Where winds sport in the grass,
And petals of the Summer yield
Sweet perfumes to my lass.
I see her gather flowers so bright,
They almost match her face,
Whose rapture is my soul’s delight—
There I shall find God’s grace.
Ah, grace of mercy to me flows
When I look in her eyes;
Her soul of love and beauty glows,
And my life sanctifies.