Spare her, immortals, spare, A GARDEN IDYLL. E have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, We have met under wintry skies; Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft It is sweet in the silent woods, among To hear her voice, to gaze on her young For ever may roses divinely blow, And wine-dark pansies charm By the prim box-path where I felt the glow Of her dimpled, trusting arm; And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and smil'd, A smile as fair as her pearls; The breeze was in love with the darling child, 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, 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. |