 | Mundi et Cordis |  |
97
III. THE MINGLING.
Nature, low-panting into silence, seemsIn a voluptuous trance 'twixt pain and pleasure.
Like a flush'd bride, who sleeps, but still in dreams
Awhile sighs lovingly, the day is hush'd
To slumber in the west; but its warm beams
Yet breathe there of the sun: a fitful measure
Comes on the air, at length'ning intervals,
From some near-nestling bird; whilst, even as crush'd
Flowerets and leaves yield incense, fruits their juices,
The full-reposing beauty of the scene,
Press'd by the strenuous soul, deeply infuses
Its sweetness through the spirit; till between
The twain is but one life, and these clay walls
On this side Death dissolve, and all on air we lean!
| Mundi et Cordis | |