From blackened bark; fresh is my heart within, -
Although full long ere incense-breathing morn
Began the east to blanch, I chased the deer
Across the hill and down the shadowy vale
Where bend the thick-grown alders, and the brook,
By violets and the red-lipped pulpits hemmed,
Gurgles amid the stones. Yet, love, I come
Not tired, though inclined to quiet. Cool,
O fountain, seatter large melodious drops,
And you, O trees, with branches interlaced,
Shut out the obtrusive sun, whose torrid rays
Our wealth of placid joy would fain invade.
I bring no favorite book for company, -
I need none where the violets glancing up
With heaven-blue eyes, and the dark soft-strewn moss,
And breezes fanning soft, caress her form
Who is to me than all the world beside
More lovely, and more restful than the night.