The wild, sweet water, as it flows,--
The winds, that kiss me as they pass,--
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass,--
The daffodilly, trying to bless
With better light the beauteous air,--
The lily, wearing the white dress
Of sanctuary, to be more fair,--
The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer,--
The moth, his brown sails balancing
Along the stubble crisp and dry,--
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand,--the pewet's cry,--
The friendly robin's gracious note,--
The hills, with curious weeds o'errun,--
The althea, with her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun,--
The dandelion, whose golden share
Is set before the rustic's plough,--
The hum of insects in the air,--
The blooming bush,--the withered bough,--
The coming on of eve,--the springs
Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,--
The frost, that with rough, rugged wings
Blows down the cankered buds,--the white,
Long drifts of winter snow,--the heat
Of August, falling still and wide,--
Broad cornfields,--one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside,--
All things, my darling, all things seem
In some strange way to speak of thee;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.
My soul to thine is dutiful,
In all its pleasure, all its care;
O most beloved! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere!
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