She can be as wise as we
And wiser when she wishes;
She can knit with cunning wit,
And dress the homely dishes,
She can flourish staff or pen,
And deal a wound that lingers;
She can talk the talk of men,
And touch with thrilling fingers.
—George Meredith
To Spring: On the Banks of the Cam
O Thou that from the green vales of the West
Com'st in thy tender robes with bashful feet,
And to the gathering clouds
Liftest thy soft blue eye:
I woo thee. Spring!—Tho' thy dishevell'd hair
In misty ringlets sweep thy snowy breast,
And thy young lips deplore
Stern Boreas' ruthless rage:
While morn is stee'd in dews, and the dank show'r
Drops from the green boughs of the budding trees;
And the thrush tunes his song
Warbling with unripe throat:
Thro' the deep wood where spreads the sylvan oak
I follow thee, and see thy hands unfold
The love-sick primrose pale
And moist-eyed violet:
While in the central grove, at thy soft voice,
The Dryads start forth from their wintry cells,
And from their oozy waves
The Naiads lift their heads
In sedgy bonnets trimm'd with rushy leaves
And water-blossoms from the forest stream,
To pay their vows to thee,
Their thrice adored queen!
The stripling shepherd wand'ring thro' the wood
Startles the linnet from her downy nest,
Or wreathes his crook with flowers,
The sweetest of the fields.