We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray, (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk): I'll lift one with my foot, and talk About its leaves and stalk.
Or may be that the prickles of some stem Will hold a prisoner her long garment's hem; To disentangle it I kneel, Oft wounding more than I can heal; It makes her laugh, my zeal.
Then on before a thin-legged robin hops, Or leaping on a twig, he pertly stops, Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh We draw, when quickly he will fly Into a bush close by.
A flock of goldfinches may stop their flight, And wheeling round a birchen tree alight Deep in its glittering leaves, until They see us, when their swift rise will Startle a sudden thrill.
I recollect my lady in a wood, Keeping her breath and peering—(firm she stood Her slim shape balanced on tiptoe—) Into a nest which lay below, Leaves shadowing her brow.
I recollect my lady asking me, What that sharp tapping in the wood might be? I told her blackbirds made it, which, For slimy morsels they count rich, Cracked the snail's curling niche:
She made no answer. When we reached the stone Where the shell fragments on the grass were strewn, Close to the margin of a rill; “The air,” she said, “seems damp and chill, “We'll go home if you will.”
“Make not my pathway dull so soon,” I cried, “See how those vast cloudpiles in sun-glow dyed, “Roll out their splendour: while the breeze “Lifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these “Ash saplings move at ease.”
Piercing the silence in our ears, a bird Threw some notes up just then, and quickly stirred The covert birds that startled, sent Their music thro' the air; leaves lent Their rustling and blent,
Until the whole of the blue warmth was filled So much with sun and sound, that the air thrilled. She gleamed, wrapt in the dying day's Glory: altho' she spoke no praise, I saw much in her gaze.