And I asked you—for, you know,
To my eyes your serious eyes
Spoke such sweet philosophies,—
If you'd read Rousseau.
You remember how a chance,
Somewhat like to mine, one June
Happened him at castle Toune,
Over there in France?
And a cherry dropping fair
On your cheek I, envying it,
Said—remembering Rousseau's wit—
"Would my lips were there!"
How you laughed and blushed, I know.—
Here's the stream. The west has narrowed
To a streak of gold, deep arrowed.—
There's a skiff. Let's row.
4
Entering the skiff, she speaks:
Waters, flowing dark and bright
In the sunlight or the moon,
Seize my soul with such delight
As a visible music might;
As some slow, majestic tune
Made material to the sight.
Blossoms colored like the skies,
Sunset-hued and tame or wild,
Fill my soul with such surmise
As the mind might realize
If our thoughts, all undefiled,
Should take form before our eyes.
So to me do these appeal;
So they sway me every hour:
Letting all their beauty steal
On my soul to make it feel,
Through a rivulet or flower,
More than any words reveal.