When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets
The first white violets,
And she hath reared them in her soft brown fist,
Ev’n to my stooping mouth till they be kist:—
Shall I allow my kiss more fainly lingers
Among her baby fingers,
Where (for all pride of perfume that they shed),
The very violets be out-violetted?
Great is her portion whose auriferous mines
Yield new-coin’d celandines,
Her dowry hoarded in the hedge-row’s heart
Till the March wind hath blown the buds apart;
For her delight these gay-wrought tassels be
By name Dog’s Mercury,
For her delight I scour from wood to wood,
Lured by one lode-star with her Babyhood.
Dare I avow then, Betsey, that your grove
Hath not mine only love?
Have we not quit a brave and bustling world
For catkins and the cuckoo-pint uncurl’d?
So, while your wind-blown cheek to mine you press,
I know you’ll never guess
Whereto my woodland incense I prefer—
And that I worship you, dear worshipper.