Ah! no gift of heath to city;
It was love led you, love and pity
To my sad heart,
Child, your rapture to impart.
The fast-bound, like wintry earth,
Your intoxicating mirth
Loosed and rained delightful showers:
Showed me where their song birds borrow,
All the uselessness of sorrow,
All the joy of April flowers!
The Garden Passion.
It is a garden, shy and sweet,
For youth and tongue-tied passion meet;
A green dim garden shaded deep,
Breathing of lilies, love, and sleep.
Here only flowers in darkness grow;
Here only whispering waters flow,
And fishes glide, and linnets sing,
And Summer dances with the Spring,
And here in evenings gradual gloom
Have Julian and Irene come.
Speechless they stand beneath the shade
The burning youth, the lovely maid.
Bashfully droop'd the lashes sheathe
The splendour of her eyes beneath;
And o'er her cheek and brow of snow
The virgin roses come and go.
His heart too strong, his tongue too weak,
Only his lustrous eyes can speak;
And they seem all one pent desire
An incommunicable fire!
Conscious of that impassioned gaze
She turns away her glowing face
