[VIII In this green glade, at set of sun]
In this green glade, at set of sun,
I clasp your timorous hand;
Things more divine hath nature done,
In generous mood or grand;
But rarely, even with spells of subtlest power,
Hath she made flesh to such perfection flower.
These agile fingers' willowy pearl,
Each with a dimple of snow,
This palm of tenderest roseleaf curl,
These nails of sea-shell glow,—
What choicer bevy of charms could she create?
So dear a miracle how duplicate?
Nay, but erroneous have I been
And self-condemned I stand!
For lo, the birdlike-fluttering twin
Of this belovèd hand!
Nature, deft counterfeiter, your device
The same sweet miracle has fashioned twice!
