Her mention of a thing—august or poor, Makes it seem nobler than it was before: As where the sun strikes, life will gush, And what is pale receive a flush, Rich hues—a richer blush.
My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,— Not meaning her—seems like a lax misuse. I love none by my lady's name; Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same, So blank, so very tame.
My lady walks as I have seen a swan Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone. There ends of willow branches ride, Quivering with the current's glide, By the deep river-side.
Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred; As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird At each pant shows some fiery hue, Burns gold, intensest green or blue: The same, yet ever new.
What time she walketh under flowering May, I am quite sure the scented blossoms say, “O lady with the sunlit hair! “Stay, and drink our odorous air— “The incense that we bear:
“Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade; “Being near you, our sweetness might not fade.” If trees could be broken-hearted, I am sure that the green sap smarted, When my lady parted.
This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;— Because one day I saw my lady pull Some weeds up near a little brook, Which home most carefully she took, Then shut them in a book.
A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,— A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce, Feels his heart swell as mine, when she Stands statelier, expecting me, Than tall white lilies be.
The first white flutter of her robe to trace, Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace, Expands my gaze triumphantly: Even such his gaze, who sees on high His flag, for victory.
We wander forth unconsciously, because The azure beauty of the evening draws: When sober hues pervade the ground, And life in one vast hush seems drowned, Air stirs so little sound.