And does she still perceive, her curtain drawn

white fields, where maiden Dawn

is anguish’d with the untold approach of joy?

or in the wooing forenoon softly pass

where of our little friends

that knew us, girl and boy,

the delicate feather-pinks, each dainty greeting bends

before her step, amid the pale sweet grass?

or warmer flush

our poppies with her blush

as the long day of love grows bold for the red kiss

and dreams of bliss

dizzy the brain and awe the youthful blood?

Surely her longing gaze hath call’d them forth

the bashful blue-eyed flower-births of the North,

forget-me-nots and violets of the wood,

those maids that slept beneath the snow, and every
gracious thing

that glads the spring!

— Ah sweet! but dream me in thy landscape there

as I have pictured thee

and I shall rest the long day at thy knee

beneath thy hair:

and Thou and I unconscious of surprise

but innocently quiet and gravely glad

and just a little sad

with longing long repress’d,

shall fill with grace each other’s welcome eyes

till the shy evening rise

and the streaming lilac-bloom enchant the drowsed air,

hushing it soft and warm round pillows press’d

by happy lovers’ rest

lost in that timeless hour when breast is joined to breast.

 

1895