1862.
_A SONG._
First the fine, faint, dreamy motion
Of the tender blood
Circling in the veins of children--
This is Life, the bud.
Next the fresh, advancing beauty
Growing from the gloom,
Waking eyes and fuller bosom--
This is Life, the bloom.
Then the pain that follows after,
Grievous to be borne,
Pricking, steeped in subtle poison--
This is Love, the thorn.
_SONG._
Wait but a little while--
The bird will bring
A heart in tune for melodies
Unto the spring,
Till he who 's in the cedar there
Is moved to trill a song so rare,
And pipe her fair.
Wait but a little while--
The bud will break;
The inner rose will ope and glow
For summer's sake;
Fond bees will lodge within her breast
Till she herself is plucked and prest
Where I would rest.
Wait but a little while--
The maid will grow
Gracious with lips and hands to thee,
With breast of snow.
To-day Love 's mute, but time hath sown
A soul in her to match thine own,
Though yet ungrown.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]