  Dear, the delightful world I see Holdeth its attributes for thee, Nor on my heart doth earth intrude Save to thy grace it hath some rude Inadequate similitude. So lilac leaves the showers bespatter, The dropping acorns’ elfin patter— These are but echoes of thy feet, Naked or shod, how fair and fleet On oaken board or paven street. The burnish of thy hair is far Dearer to me than sunsets are— When, from sheer Compton looking west, Such gilded after-glows invest The twilight on the Vale of Test. Grey mirrors to the blue of the skies Are the fringed candours of your eyes— So hoof-prints in the grassy lane, Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, contain Celestial leavings of the rain. But vain the wordy nets I make To trap the look of thee and take Thy graces by the wings which be So sturdy as to flutter free Yet shall the broke words cast away Serve for thy monument which say— “Behold us, all too weak a gin Too slack a toil to fetter in The shadows on her childish chin.” |
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