A sober calm was on each face; Sweet stillness brooded o’er the place; Yet something of a festal air The youths and maidens seemed to wear.
But, as I passed, an idle breeze Swept through the quivering maple-trees; Chased by the winds in merry rout, A fair, light curtain floated out.
And this I saw: a quiet room Adorned with flowers of richest bloom— A lily here, a garland there— Fragrance and silence everywhere.
Then on I rode. But if a bride Should there her happy blushes hide, Or if beyond my vision lay Some pale face shrouded from the day,
I could not tell. O joy and Pain, Your voices join in one refrain! So like ye are, we may not know If this be gladness, this be woe!
THE CLAY TO THE ROSE
O beautiful, royal Rose, O Rose, so fair and sweet! Queen of the garden art thou, And I—the Clay at thy feet!
The butterfly hovers about thee; The brown bee kisses thy lips; And the humming-bird, reckless rover, Their marvellous sweetness sips.
The sunshine hastes to caress thee Flying on pinions fleet; The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom, But I—I lie at thy feet!
The radiant morning crowns thee; And the noon’s hot heart is thine; And the starry night enfolds thee In the might of its love divine;