must have known we should Be making all the haste we could! The gentle scolding given and past, We bade each other good-night at last When floating in the stillness by Came sounds like “late,” and “supper,” and “bed;” And brighter through a deepening sky A million stars shone o’er my head, And bats flew fast and silently.

p. 184

p. 185

When memory wings her way to you, I nurse my faith to think it true For one day, Nelly, you were mine! Ah, Dearest, had that day divine Made us two one for good and all! p. 186The nursery words I now recall, Of Tom the Piper’s Son’s one tune, Mused over in that day of June, Have proved the prelude to my fate! We were not fashioned to translate Each other’s will as man and wife: And tho’ I was not broken-hearted, As Burns when from his Mary parted, And fled the fragrance of his life; Yet are you near and dear to me! For on the bridge below the hill I see you smile as sweetly still; And in your clear wide-opened eyes The spacious wonder of the skies. While every thoughtful dainty grace Rests well contented in your face, All fascinations of the rose, Uniting in your presence close. Indeed, from glowing hair to feet, So lightly poised, shaped so complete You seem a being ’twixt a flower, p. 187The glory of a shining hour, And one ordained to satisfy The claims of immortality.

p. 186

p. 187

Your beauty, like a queen’s or king’s Good word, gives price to common things: That can your ruddy fingers hold Hangs lovelier there than purest gold; And, as the poor, grown rich by chance, Run raptured in extravagance, My fancy riots in the fields’ Increasing wealth its charter yields: And at your lintel, by the bower Of vine leaves screening noonday heat; The grapes, that hang there small and sour, Are soft in bloom and more than sweet!

Beholding kittens as they play, Black, tortoise, white, or silver grey; Or ducklings on the water glide, Yellow and soft, and artless eyed: p. 188Or neatly-shapen chicks astray, Pecking incessantly on their way; Each such a trim completed creature, In perfect movement, hue, and feature: A foolish sadness makes me sigh They lack immutability. But you, my Nelly, are ever young. Fresh and happy you dwell among The brightest flowers, and flourish where Meadows are ever fresh and fair. As you were then I see you now, Standing beneath an apple bough; Your face amid its blossoms, bright With rosy laughter and delight, You seem a blossom the partial sun Has chosen to make a larger one.

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