Lora is her name whose sound
Hedges all my heart around
With the gold of happiness:
When she speaks, you will confess,
Music’s self her words express,
Every vowel a caress—
She ’s so kind, is Lora.
Lora is her name that brings
Thoughts to me of morning things:
Songs of birds; of bees that creep
In the rumpled bluebells deep;
Butterflies, that, half asleep,
On some rose their vigil keep—
She ’s so young, is Lora.
Lora, lean to mine your face;
So; and round you let me lace
One firm arm, and gently woo
Your small mouth, as fresh as dew,
Till it says your heart is true,
True to me as mine to you,
Sunny-hearted Lora!
PLEDGES
I
What the May-apple or
Woodland anemone—
Star-perfect as a star—
Says to the honey-bee:
Or to the winds that woo,
Filling their hearts with dew:
What says the bluet’s blue
To the sun’s ray—do you
Know or do I?—
II
Listen, and you may hear
What the oxalis says
Into the downy ear
Of the pale moth that sways
There on its heart and drinks:
Or what the forest-pinks
Say to the dew that winks,
Butterfly-wing that blinks—
Glimmering by.