 | The coming of love |  |
I hear our blackbirds singing in our grove,
And now I see—I smell—the eglantine—
The meadow-sweet where rivulets laugh and shine
To English clouds that laugh and shine above;
I feel a stream of maiden-music move,
Pouring through all my frame a life divine
From Rhona's throbbing bosom claspt to mine—
From that dear harp, her heart, whose chords are love!
And now I see—I smell—the eglantine—
The meadow-sweet where rivulets laugh and shine
To English clouds that laugh and shine above;
I feel a stream of maiden-music move,
Pouring through all my frame a life divine
From Rhona's throbbing bosom claspt to mine—
From that dear harp, her heart, whose chords are love!
| The coming of love | |