She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays, Foxglove and jasmine stars, A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze Of red in the celadon jars : And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, Oh, who would think that summer spells For a glad song came from the milking-shed, And the green was golden above her head, Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt— As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt And the odorous limes were dim above FREDERICK LOCKER. NOVEMBER SNOW. HE snow upon the rose-flow'r sits, Sweet Robin Redbreast o'er it flits, The snow upon my life-bloom sits, Thy spirit o'er my spirit flits, EARL OF SOUTHESK. DAWN. LILY, with the sun of heaven's Prime splendour on thy breast! The darkness of our universe Smothered my soul in night; Thy glory shone; whereat the curse Raised over envy; freed from pain ; THOMAS WOOLNER. THE TRYST. LEEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine, Waking, this mid and moonlight night, The joy, and know not if I wake. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. IN A GONDOLA. SHE SINGS. I. HE moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow ROBERT BROWNING. |