University of Virginia Library

‘Bloom on the apple,
How cam'st thou there?’
Because the sunshine
Did not despair;
But play'd and beamed on
My sullen green,
Threw golden kisses
As long as seen;
And rose the morrow
A monarch still,
With pride in patience
To work his will;
And greeted and glanc'd with
A subtler grace,
That yester touches
Had left no trace.
With fuller hope on
Each morning came,
Uprose in splendour
And sank in flame:
Shot burning arrows
Of tropic heat;
Or fell in sun showers
All mellow sweet.
Anon would threaten,
Anon beguile,
Drop down a mist-wreath
A sudden smile;
The black'ning veil of
The clouds burst through,
And hang in jewels
My drops of dew;
Nor through the summer
Forbore to seek,
But left unrosy
My pale-hued cheek.
The softer fruitage
In crimson shone;
But its rubied glory
Had come and gone,
Ere a warmer tincture,
A softer grain,
Gave tender hope of
The scarlet stain;
To bring that hope to
Its golden prime
The sunlight tarried:
And won, what time
The southern grape takes
Its purple flush,
The first faint sign of
A promis'd blush.

‘Song of the poet,
How cam'st thou there?’
Because his spirit
Did not despair.
The thought was golden,
But O the doom
In words to picture
That inmost bloom!
The thought was sunshine,
But could it reach
The thick-ribbed core of
Resisting speech?
The happy lover
When first he knows
To his lady's cheek he
Can bring the rose,
Will bid the colour
Responsive rise
To own the power of
His passion's sighs.
But O the poet
His bliss to earn,
With deeper fervour
Of heart must burn;
Must wait and linger,
And labour still,
With toil recurrent
To work his will:
Must bear in patience
The blinding screen,
The earthborn curtain
That comes between
His own bright thought and
Its outer form,
In mist of stupor
Or cloud of storm:
With quicken'd ardour
Of hope assail,
More slow to falter
The more he fail:
Inured by hindrance
To brook delays,
Must watch the flowing
Of fruitless days
With fever'd heart-throb,
Yet keep the same
Foremeasur'd calmness
Of master-aim;
Till, fully tempted,
And train'd to bear
All subtle guises
Of spirit-care,
As frosty touches
Begin to steal
On his waning life, he
Perchance may feel
The piercing power of
His brain burst through,
To clothe dull word with
His passion's hue:
Till 'mong the fibres
Of speech be wrought
The rosy blush of
His vision'd thought.