 | The Germ, Issue #2: Thoughts Toward Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art |  |
Sonnet.
When midst the summer-roses the warm bees
Are swarming in the sun, and thou—so full
Of innocent glee—dost with thy white hands pull
Pink scented apples from the garden trees
To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,
Like those who gather'd manna ; and I cull
Some hasty buds to pelt thee—white as wool
Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease ;—
Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles
Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock
Of bright birds from rose-bowers ; but when thou'rt gone
I have no speech,—no magic that beguiles,
The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock :—
The dial cannot speak without the sun !
Are swarming in the sun, and thou—so full
Of innocent glee—dost with thy white hands pull
Pink scented apples from the garden trees
To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,
Like those who gather'd manna ; and I cull
Some hasty buds to pelt thee—white as wool
Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease ;—
Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles
Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock
Of bright birds from rose-bowers ; but when thou'rt gone
I have no speech,—no magic that beguiles,
The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock :—
The dial cannot speak without the sun !
69
| The Germ, Issue #2: Thoughts Toward Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art | |