“T HOU art but in life's morning!” Years have sped
Their silent flight, since thus my idle rhyme
Address'd thee in thy being's opening prime;
If, since that hour, some clouds at times have spread
Their shadow o'er thy path, these have not shed
Their wrath upon thee; but, from time to time,
Have led thy spirit sunnier heights to climb,
Communing with the loved, lamented dead.
And still thou art but in the later morn
Of thy existence—hearts of finest mould
And best affections are empower'd to hold
The purer, nobler feelings with them born,

“Pledge me with wine,” the maiden cried,
Her tones were gay and light;
“From others you have turned aside,
I claim your pledge to-night.”

The blood rushed to the young man's cheek,
Then left it deadly pale;
Beneath the witchery of her smile
He felt his courage fail.

For many years he'd been a slave
To the enchanting bowl,
Until he grasped with eager hands
The reins of self-control;

And struggled with his hated thrall,
Until he rent his chain,
And strove to stand erect and free,
And be a man again.

“Oh, had I Colin's winning ease,”
Said Lindor with a sigh,
“So carelessly ordained to please,
I'd every care defy.

“If Colin but for Daphne's hair
A simple garland weave,
He gives it with so sweet an air
He seems a crown to give.

“But, though I cull the fairest flower
That decks the breast of spring,
And posies from the woodland bower
For Daphne's bosom bring,

“When I attempt to give the fair,
With many a speech in store,
My half-form'd words dissolve in air,
I blush and dare no more.

“And shall I then expect a smile

“Now, just let me see:
Seems to me that 'twas she
Objected to something
That he did. Or he
Objected to her having
Someone to tea.
No! Now isn't that queer?
I know I did hear
Just the way that it was,
But it's left me, I fear.

“No! It comes to me now:
It seems this was the how
Of it: Something he did
That she wouldn't allow.
Or was it her old folks
That started the row?
No! Now that isn't right,
I know that's not quite
The way that Miss Gadaround
Told me last night.

“Ah! Now I recall
The gossip and all:

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

“Love has no shame.”—
'Twas this you said to me.
Shall Love reveal
Hid beauties that are real
And still disguise the soul's infirmity
In fear of blame?
“Love has no cruelty.”—
See first the wounds that are within
Hid by this quite sufficient skin.
Loving your spirit, I may not deceive it.
Then of my body, Lover—take or leave it.

“If I could set the moon upon
This table,” said my friend,
“Among the standard poets
And brochures without end,
And noble prints of old Japan,
How empty they would seem,
By that encyclopædia
Of whim and glittering dream.”

“I have seven measures of white thread
I spun in the summer.
I'll make a jacket from it for you.
Come, leave your wife!”
“You talk silly, that's what you do.
Your hemp clothes—you aren't my wife,
you can't make the sleeves well, the shoulders easy to wear,
the collar comfortable, or can you?”

“Gone to gather herbs”—
So they say of you.
But in cloud-girt hills,
What am I to do?

“Cold,” cried the wind on the hill,
“Cold,” sang the tree;
Your eyes were blue-grey and still
And cold as the sea.

Cold lay the snow on the land;
Cold stood the pine;
But neither as cold as your hand
Lying in mine.

Ah, Love, has the fire died so soon—
Just smoldered and gone;
A kiss by the light of the moon,
A parting by dawn.