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The Hour
I ask not what the bud may be,
That hangs upon the green-sheathed stem;
But love with every leaf I see,
To lie unfolded there like them.
That hangs upon the green-sheathed stem;
But love with every leaf I see,
To lie unfolded there like them.
I ask not what the tree may bear,
When whitened by the hand of spring;
But with its blossoms on the air,
Would far around my perfume fling.
When whitened by the hand of spring;
But with its blossoms on the air,
Would far around my perfume fling.
183
The infant's joy is mine, is mine,
I join its infant sports with glee;
And would not for a world resign,
The look of love it casts on me.
I join its infant sports with glee;
And would not for a world resign,
The look of love it casts on me.
Leave not the bird upon the wing,
But with her seek her shaded nest,
And then with voice like hers thou'lt sing,
When life's last sun-beam gilds the west.
But with her seek her shaded nest,
And then with voice like hers thou'lt sing,
When life's last sun-beam gilds the west.
Poem No. 211; summer–fall 1839
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