 | Poems (1885) |  |
267
A HOME SONG.
The swallow is come from his African home
To build on the English eaves;
The Sycamore wears all his glistering spears,
And the Almond rains roseate leaves;
And—dear Love!—with thee, as with bird and with tree,
'Tis the time of blossom and nest,
Then, what good thing of the bountiful Spring
Shall I liken to thee—the best?
To build on the English eaves;
The Sycamore wears all his glistering spears,
And the Almond rains roseate leaves;
And—dear Love!—with thee, as with bird and with tree,
'Tis the time of blossom and nest,
Then, what good thing of the bountiful Spring
Shall I liken to thee—the best?
Over the streamlet the rose-bushes bend
Clouded with tender green,
And green the buds grow upon every bough,
Though as yet no rose-tint is seen;
Like those, thou art come to thy promise of bloom,
Like theirs, thine shunneth the light;
Break, rose-bud!—and let a longing heart know
If the blossom be red or white!
Clouded with tender green,
And green the buds grow upon every bough,
Though as yet no rose-tint is seen;
268
Like theirs, thine shunneth the light;
Break, rose-bud!—and let a longing heart know
If the blossom be red or white!
Up the broad river with swelling sails,
A glorious vessel goes,
And not more clear in the soft blue air
Than in the still water she shows!
Dost thou not go with as brave a show,
And, sooth, with as swelling a state?
Oh, come into harbour with that thou bear'st,
Dear ship!—for I eagerly wait.
A glorious vessel goes,
And not more clear in the soft blue air
Than in the still water she shows!
Dost thou not go with as brave a show,
And, sooth, with as swelling a state?
Oh, come into harbour with that thou bear'st,
Dear ship!—for I eagerly wait.
Fair ship!—ah, Kate! none beareth a freight
As precious and rich as thine,
And where's the rose-bush that will burgeon and blush
With a blossom like thine and mine?
—Well! well!—we do, as the meadow birds too,
Since meadows with gold were dyed,
The hen sits at rest in the hidden nest,
And her mate sings glad at her side.
As precious and rich as thine,
And where's the rose-bush that will burgeon and blush
With a blossom like thine and mine?
—Well! well!—we do, as the meadow birds too,
Since meadows with gold were dyed,
The hen sits at rest in the hidden nest,
And her mate sings glad at her side.
Swanscombe, April 1857.
| Poems (1885) | |