  ALL glorious as the Rainbow’s birth, She came in Springtide’s golden hours; When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, And May was crowned with buds and flowers. The mounting devil at my heart Clomb faintlier, as my life did win The charmÈd heaven she wrought apart, To wake its better Angel in. With radiant mien she trode serene, And passed me smiling by! Oh! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I. The dewy eyelids of the Dawn Ne’er oped such heaven as hers did show: It seemed her dear eyes might have shone As jewels in some starry brow. Her face flashed glory like a shrine Of lily-bell with sunburst bright, Where came and went love-thoughts divine, As low winds walk the leaves in light: Of Summer’s star-clad sky; Oh! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I. Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit Of love were ripening to be pressed: Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root, Might not have broken a Babe’s rest,— More liquid than the running brooks, More vernal than the voice of Spring, When Nightingales are in their nooks, And all the leafy thickets ring. The love she coyly hid at heart Was shyly conscious in her eye; Oh! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I. |
|
