UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,
Couchd with her arms behind her
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,
Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.
I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,
Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,
Waking in amazement
she could not but embrace me:
Then would she hold me and never let me go?
Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,
Swift as the swallow along the rivers light
the surface to meet his mirrord winglets,
Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.
Shy as the squirrel
that leaps among the pine-tops,
Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,
She whom I love is hard
to catch and conquer,
Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!
When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror,
Tying up her laces, looping up her
Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded,
More love should I have, and much less care.
her mother tends her before the lighted mirror,
Loosening her laces, combing down her curls,
thinks, were this wild thing wedded,
I should miss but one for many boys and girls.
Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows
Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.
she is athirst and drinking up her wonder:
Earth to her is young as the slip of te new moon.
an unkindness, tis but her rapid measure,
Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less:
swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones
Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise
Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping
Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.
on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,
Brooding oer the gloom, spins the brown evejar.
the valley, more and more forgetting:
So were it with me if forgetting could be willd.
Tell the grassy hollow
that holds the bubbling well-spring,
Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filld.
Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,
Arm in arm, all against the raying West,
she sings, to the merry tune she marches,
Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossessd.
she is what my heart first awaking
Whisperd the world was; morning light is she.
Love that so desires
would fain keep her changeless;
Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.
Happy happy time, when the white star hovers
Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,
the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,
Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.
crowd the shades as the grave East deepens
Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.
the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;
Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.
Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashd twilight,
Low-lidded twilight, oer the valleys brim,
on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,
Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.
where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet,
Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.
me hear her laughter, I would have her ever
Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.
All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose;
Up lanes, woods through, they troop
in joyful bands.
My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters,
Eyes the bent anemones, and
hangs her hands.
Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping,
Coming the rose: and unaware a cry
in her bosom for odours and for colour,
Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.
Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,
Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new
High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;
Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.
friends have told her fills her heart to brimming,
Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.
of her haven, O like a dove alighting,
Arms up, she droppd: our souls were in our names.