When midst the summer-roses the warm bees
Are swarming in the sun, and thou--so full
Of innocent glee--dost with thy white hands pull
Pink scented apples from the garden trees
To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,
Like those who gather'd manna; and I cull
Some hasty buds to pelt thee--white as wool
Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease;--
Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles
Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock
Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone
I have no speech,--no magic that beguiles,
The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock:--
The dial cannot speak without the sun!