Of mingled mournfulness and strange rejoicing —
As though ’twould fear thee, yet to love were prone.
What doth it whisper ’mid the green tree’s shading?
Or art thou trembling, not with hope but ire?
Chid’st thou its love? Or is it thee upbraiding
With thine inconstant tongue of living fire?
Is it some life-tale thou art subtly telling?
Some tale of dark and passionate romance —
That the young leaflets seem with wonder swelling,
Shrink at thy touch, and eye thee so askance?