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HERTHA.
O swift and pure! half bright, half dark, It trailed the supple willow bough;Thence rose the grateful meadow-lark, Singing as but the lark knows how:I looked therein, and blushed to mark The fretful line across my brow.
"My loving Hertha," then I sighed, "I am ashamed of grief to-day!Be thou my mentor as my guide; Thy mood I'll mirror, grave or gay."She pondered, laughed, and she replied, "Then half yourself you'll throw away!"
"Even so," quoth I, and laughed as well; Meanwhile the brooklet at our feetHad plunged into a cooling dell, And under talking trees did beat:Howbeit, though they had news to tell, Their speech to us was obsolete.
Despite the roughness of the way, With childish glee we wandered down;The scented brier would lean and sway, And lightly pluck us by the gown;Our steps did many a bird affray, Our laughter many a warble drown.
