BY "THE SQUIRE."
When the young Morning, like a new-drest bride,
With pearls of dew fresh glistening in her hair,
Walks through the east in early summer-tide.
Her robe loose floating on the scented air,
The laughing hours assembled at her side
Or circling round her—then is she less fair
Than, in my heart, the picture, sweet and rare,
Thy presence left.—My books go unperused,
Old friends are shunned, and time flies by unused,
While I, grown idle, nothing do but dream;
Gazing upon that picture till I seem
Thyself, again, before my eyes to see,
And not the ideal show: so that to me
The semblance turns to sweet reality.
