How bright that heaven-directed glance!
Poems of the Affections, 17.
Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
To crush the mountain dew-drops,—soon to melt
On the flower's breast; as if she felt
That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening.
The Triad.
Let other bards of angels sing,