For so a common wayside blossom, touched With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet Than crowns the royal lily of the South; And so a well-remembered perfume seems The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

For so a common wayside blossom, touched

With tender thought, assumes a grace more sweet

Than crowns the royal lily of the South;

And so a well-remembered perfume seems

The breath of one who breathes in Paradise.

1872.

 THREE ALPINE SONNETS

I

THE GLACIER

 At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, The silver-crested waves no murmur make; But far away the avalanches wake The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream; Their momentary thunders, dying, seem To fall into the stillness, flake by flake, And leave the hollow air with naught to break The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,

The silver-crested waves no murmur make;

But far away the avalanches wake

The rumbling echoes, dull as in a dream;

Their momentary thunders, dying, seem

To fall into the stillness, flake by flake,

And leave the hollow air with naught to break

The frozen spell of solitude supreme.

 At noon unnumbered rills begin to spring Beneath the burning sun, and all the walls Of all the ocean-blue crevasses ring With liquid lyrics of their waterfalls; As if a poet's heart had felt the glow Of sovereign love, and song began to flow.

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