sonnet

The temperate air is filled with a gray mist,
Which thickens to a dense cloud when the eye
To make out forms of distant things doth try,
And whose close fold the sunbeams doth resist
The ground is soaked and darkened with the rain,
And in the road slow carriage wheels have rolled
Deep ruts, that little pools of water hold,
And in the path my steps leave footprints plain
In the sleeping trees no life is visible;
And, with this ghostly mist wrapped all around
Their branches, fancy makes them seem as bound

There is, upon my homeward walk, a place
Where I must always stop; a deep, still pond,
From whose green banks the katydids respond,
With their sharp treble, to the bull-frogs' bass.
O beautiful the spot where the wild stream,
Merged in these calmer waters, finds its end!
Here, in the shadowy eve, the willows bend
In moveless shapes, like phantoms of a dream.
Not far off stands a mill among the trees,
(Of laboring strength with loveliness the type)
And ofttimes have I watched, lying at mine ease,

With way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone,
Life's upward road I journey'd many a day,
And framing many a sad yet soothing lay,
Beguiled the solitary hours with song.
Lonely my heart and rugged was the way,
Yet often pluck'd I, as I past along,
The wild and simple flowers of poesy;
And sometimes, unreflecting as a child,
Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye.
Take thou the wreath, Beloved ! it is wild
And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou
The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves

Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said,
And wisely was it he advised distrust:
The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first.
Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head,
And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage
Tempests the great sea-waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased through many an age,
And timidly did its light leaves disclose,
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.
They to the summer cautiously expand,
And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen,

Thou lingerest, Spring! still wintry is the scene;
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear;
Scarce doth the glossy celandine appear
Starring the sunny bank, or early green
The elder yet its circling tufts put forth.
The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest
Where we should see our martin's snowy breast
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north,
And from the keener east, still frequent blow.
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest; and it should be so, —
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out!

The dark magnolia leaves and spreading fig,
With green luxuriant beauty all their own,
Stirless, hang heavy-coated with the dew,
Which swift and iridescent gleams shoot through
As if a thousand brilliant-diamonds shone.
Afloat the lagoon, water-lilies white
In sweets with muscadines perfume the night.
A song bird restless chants a fleeting lay;
Asleep on all the swamp and bayou lies
A peaceful, blissful, moonlight, mystic haze,
A dreaminess o'er all the landscape plays,
While lake and lagoon mirror all the skies.

Thou , att whose feete I waste mie soule in sighes,
Before whose beautie mie proude hearte is meeke,
Thou who make'st dove-like mie fierce falcon-cies,
And pale'st the rose of mie Lancastrian cheeke
With one colde smyle about this budded mouth:
Oh! that mie harmlesse vengeaunce I could wreake,
On that pale rival bloome of thine!—the South
Raves not more fell, prisoned an Aprill weeke,
To feede on lilie-banks, than I to prey
Some greedie minutes on that blossome whyte,
Whose gentle ravage thou'dst too long delaie!—

't was in that pleasant season, when the year
Bursts into all the beauty of the Spring,
I wandered by the greenwood side, to hear
What requiem to my woe the birds could sing.
“O wherefore com'st without thy mistress dear,
Whose beauty lent such brightness to these bowers?”
My heart was drowned; I answered with a tear
And, hope-deserted, turned me to the flowers:
“Ah, where is she,” they cried, “that lovely one!
Who wreathed us in her hair to make thee smile?”
Mute, I implored the stream. “O let me run

She comes majestic with her swelling sails,
The gallant Ship; along her watery way
Homeward she drives before the favoring gales;
Now flirting at their length the streamers play,
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze.
Hark to the sailors' shouts! the rocks rebound,
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound.
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas;
And what a heart-delight they feel at last,
So many toils, so many dangers past,
To view the port desired, he only knows
Who on the stormy deep for many a day