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.
Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;--
The mighty love I bore her,--how would pall
My very breath of life, if she
For ever breathed not hers with me;--
Could I a cherub be,
How, idly hoping to enrich her grace,
I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;--
Then back thro' the vague distance beat,
Glowing with joy her smile to meet,
And heap them round her feet.
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