er steps fall sweet as summer rain,
And lull to dream the thoughts of pain,—
O glowing grass, O violet skyey,
Ye hint of something of fairer grain!
She outruns sympathy of crowds;
Her dwelling is above the clouds;
She stoops to kiss the rose to crimson—
Her face no featureless mask enshrouds.
Her chatelaine's of amber fine;
No hue of coming autumn's wine
But she outpours from tawny beaker,
And fills each grape of the swelling vine.
elestial sweetness swift outstrips
The light unleashed of its eclipse!—
A fire of dew burns in her bosom,
And steady glows through her eyes and lips.
She holds fair forms of ferns and seeds,
Lichens and fruits and burnished reeds,
And pours, in wake of mellow harvest,
Splendors of flame on the leaves and weeds.
O give, give me my own of that
Which sweeps and circles like the bat
Around me as I walk in ether,
O fair Divine, at whose feet I've sat!