  You scarce can mark her flying feet Or bear her eyelids’ flash a space; Her passing by is like the sweet Blown odor of some tropic place; She has a voice, a smile sincere, The blitheness of the nascent year, April’s growth and grace; All youth, all force, all fire and stress In her impassioned gentleness, Half exhortation, half caress. A thing of peace and of delight,— A fountain sparkling in the sun, Reflecting heavenly shapes by night,— Light be the storm that she must know, And branches greener after snow For hope to build upon; Late may the tear of memory start, And Love, who is her counterpart, Be tender with that lily-heart! |
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