  Through ferns and moss the path wound to A hollow where the touchmenots Swung horns of honey filled with dew; And where—like foot-prints—violets blue And bluets made sweet sapphire blots, 'Twas there that she had passed he knew. The grass, the very wilderness On either side, breathed rapture of Her passage: 'twas her hand or dress That touched some tree—a slight caress— That made the wood-birds sing above; Her step that made the flowers up-press. He hurried, till across his way, Foam-footed, bounding through the wood, A brook, like some wild girl at play, Went laughing loud its roundelay; And there upon its bank she stood, A sunbeam clad in woodland gray. And when she saw him, all her face Grew to a wildrose by the stream; And to his breast a moment's space He gathered her; and all the place Seemed conscious of some happy dream Come true to add to Earth its grace. For which God made the world—the bliss, The love, that raised her innocent Pure face to his that, smiling, bent And sealed confession with a kiss— Life needs no other testament. |
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