The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,
And echoes in a grottoed place,
Hath held a fairer thing than these,—
The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,—
The image of her face.
O happy wind! O happy brook!
So dear before, so free of cares!
How dearer since her kiss and look,—
O happy wind! O happy brook!—
Have blessed you unawares!
AT TWENTY-ONE
The rosy hills of her high breasts,
Whereon, like misty morning, rests
The breathing lace; her auburn hair,
Wherein, a star point sparkling there,
One jewel burns; her eyes, that keep
Recorded dreams of song and sleep;
Her mouth, with whose comparison
The richest rose were poor and wan;
Her throat, her form—what masterpiece
Of man can picture half of these!
She comes! a classic from the hand
Of God! wherethrough I understand
What Nature means and Art and Love,
And all the lovely Myths thereof.