Of the sea-pearl, as Love breathed on their plumes.
And each was mirror'd in the other's eyes,
Floating and dark, a paradise of passion.
And on the ground, half hidden by the grass
And the pink clover flowers, lay a moss nest,
The sweet home palace of those birds. There came
A dim remembrance of a fairy tale,—
Those tales mine earliest dreams of poetry:
When halls built of the rainbows, perfumed isles
Lighted by roses, caves of gold and gems
Where Genii kept their treasures, gardens where
The fountains played in music; when these realms
Were my heart's world, and magic spells had charms
Whose power to me was passionate happiness.
There was one favourite tale: In the hot noon
I wont to seek a little lonely nook,—
None sought it but myself,— and read it there,
My graver task too often laid aside
For this sweet secret idlesse. There I lay
Half buried by long grass and violets,
One arm on an old trunk, and with my book
Pillowed upon the moss, the sun shut out
By the dark yew o'erhead, and on one side
Hung two most graceful willows, and the pond
Beneath was like their mirror, and the sun
Shone through at times, and there like silver barks
(Just a ship for Camdeo) white and tall,
Floated the water lilies. This sweet tale
Was of two lovers, true, though tried by all
Of peril and of sorrow that the heart ,
Could bear and yet not break. There was one,
A gentle Fairy, pitied them, and gave
A gift of quiet happiness at last:
And two fair Doves, in the calm greenwood shade,
Their pleasant life was past. And this sweet dream
Of the fine Painter called this tale to mind,
With all its tenderness, its luxury
Of peace and feeling. Love, oh love! thy home
Is not in this rude world; oh gold and care
Are thy death sickness. L. E. L.
