grows a bitter root From which rank poisons shoot Upon the grave where she is lying low.

p. 99

Ah, hapless fate! Could it be just, That her young life should play Its easy, natural way; Then, with an unexpected thrust, Be hence thus rudely sent; Even as her feelings blent With those around, whose love would trust Her willing power to bless, For all their happiness? Alone she moulders into common dust.

Small birds twitter and peck the weeds That wave above this bed p. 100Where my dear Love lies dead: They flutter and burst the globèd seeds,  And beat the downy pride Of dandelions, wide: From speargrass, bowed with watery beads, The wet uniting, drips In sparkles off the tips: In mallow bloom the wild bee drops and feeds.

p. 100

No more she hears, where vines adorn Her window, on the boughs Birds chirrup an arouse: Flies, buzzing, strengthening with the morn, She will not hear again At random strike the pane: No more against the newly shorn Grass edges will her gown In playful waves be thrown, As she walks forth to view what flowers are born.

p. 101Nor ponder more those dark green rings Stained quaintly on the lea, To picture elfin glee; While through the grass a faint air sings, And swarms of insects revel Along the sultry level: No more will watch their brilliant wings, Now lightly dip, now soar, Then sink, and rise once more. My Lady’s death makes dear these trivial things.

p. 101

One noon, within an oak’s broad shade, Lost in delightful talk, We rested from our walk. Beyond the shadow, large and staid, Cows chewed with drowsy eye Their cud complacently: Elegant deer walked o’er the glade, Or stood with wide bright eyes Gazing a short surprise; And up the fern slope nimble conies played.

p. 102As rooks cawed labouring through the heat; Each wing-flap seemed to make Their weary bodies ache; And swallows, though so wildly fleet, Made breathless pauses there At something in the air. All disappeared: our pulses beat Distincter throbs, and each Turned and kissed without speech, She trembling from her mouth down to her feet.

p. 102

Then, as I felt her bosom heave, And listened to the din Of joyous life within, Could I but in my heaven believe, Assured by that repose Within my heart, and those Warm 

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