Fancies that teem from the prolific ground
In the heart’s solstice—in whose inner light
Through all the pleasant paths of earth we wound.
And sometimes through her music of delight
An undersound of sadness softly stole,
And floated ’twixt the fountain pure and bright
Of her deep joy and heaven—a cloud of dole
That almost seemed relief—for scarce below
The noon of rapture is allowed the soul.
Hence even in life’s summer sunbeams throw