O tell me the form of the soft summer air,
That tosses so gently the curls of my hair!
It breathes on my lip, and it fans my warm cheek,
But gives me no answer, though often I speak:
I feel it play o’er me, refreshing and light,
And yet cannot touch it, because I ’ve no sight!
And music—what is it? and where does it dwell?
I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell,
While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain,
Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain.
Now, what the bright colors of music may be,
Will any one tell me? for I cannot see.
The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh—
What are they?—on what kind of wings do they fly?
Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight
A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight?
The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind.
O tell me what light is, because I am blind!
[THE SALE OF THE WATER-LILY.]
There stood upon the broad high-road,
That o’er a moorland lay,
A widow’s low and lone abode,
And close beside the way.
Upon its face the dwelling bore
The signs of times within,
That seemed to say but little more
Than, “Better days have been!”
Behind it was the sedgy fen,
With alder, brake, and brush;
And less to serve the wants of men,
Than of the jay and thrush.
And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.