Puts forth a fairer blossom than the last,
Thrilled of thine eyes, those arsenals of blue,
Wherein the arrows of all love are cast.
"O Love, she comes! O Love, I feel her breath,
Like the soft South, that idly wandereth
Through musical leaves of laughing laziness,
Page on before her, how sweet,—none can guess:
Sighing, 'She comes! thy heart's dear life and death;
In whom is all thy bliss and thy distress.'