  HERE is the stile on which I leaned;— This golden willow bending over;— Yonder’s the same blue sky that gleamed The day that I murmured, “I am thy lover.” This is the stone on which she sat; See here the bright moss freshly springing, And look! overhead the same bluebirds Back and forth from the old nest winging. Here is the briar whose flowers she pulled Leaf by leaf as she heard my pleading. Swayed by the same idle April wind That laughed as it flew, Love’s pang unheeding. Sky, trees, flowers—the same; but I?— Am I the same boy whose wild heart burning Leapt to one heart in the sweet wild world! Stilled on one bosom its passionate yearning? Silk-soft hair and hazel eyes, Limbs that lightly moved or stood And a heart that beat with a loyal love For all things beautiful, true and good. Follies that flecked this fairest fruit, Sins that spotted this whitest page, Changed without, but the same within, Life’s rose untouched by the frost of age. Thou, too, beloved, art still the same, Deep heart, passionate, tender and true, The same clear spirit and glancing wit Piercing the armor of folly through. Sad, olivaster, Spanish face, Sweet low brow under shadowy hair, Dark eyes mingled of tears and fire, Voice like a song-bird’s heard through a prayer. Time! if thou steal her girlish beauty, Leave her spirit undimmed and free. Touch the rose with thy frosty fingers, But the rose’s perfume stays with me. |
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