Perhaps I shall give you more than you may claim.' Then I, who saw her gay impassioned glance
That promised more than speech, began to sing.
Winter and its sorrows deep
In the grave are laid in sleep;
Earth and Heaven sweet airs bring;
Winds and waters, rushing, sing-
'May is come, and in her hand
All the blossoms of the land;'
They shall be enriched with dew,
And their beauty I give you.
Yours shall be the lilies pale,
Wild wind-flowers and sorrel frail,
Cowslips from whose golden lip
Honeyed rain the fairies sip,
Stately hyacinths that take
Blue from Heaven's deepest lake,
And king-cups that rich and bold
Burn where pebbled streams are cold.
Dim primroses you shall wear,
Apple-blossoms that can dare
April hail-storms, and bluebells
Maidens love in wandering dells;
Violets wet with Ceres' tears
When she sought for Proserpine;
And the daisy flower that cheers
Poets when their hearts repine.
Let the wild-briar love to creep
O'er the casement where you sleep;
And the jasmine stars be made
In your shimmering hair to braid.
With an equal ardour glows;
And the passionate woodbine
Round your dainty waist I twine.
Call the daffodils that please
Mountain brooks and love the breeze; Call the thorns whose wizard blooms Make white fire in grassy combes ; Call the lilies of the fen,
Furze that flames from glen to glen-
Call aloud, and far and near
All the world of flowers shall hear.
Hark, they answer; hear their cries,
'We are waiting for thine eyes.'
Glen and hill and rocky moor,
Ancient gardens, meadow-floor,
Woodland, streams, and all the earth,
Break into their song of mirth--
'Thou, most beautiful, to-day
Art the only Queen of May.'
I finished with a mounting melody;
And she, who lay outstretched among the fern,
Soft pleasure wandering o'er her wayward mouth,
Unlocked her hands behind her soft brown hair,
Opened and dropped her eyes, and smiling, said—
'What woman could refuse to praise a song
That praises her so much? Yet it is plain
Town-life has left you ignorant of flowers;
The wild rose slumbers till the kiss of June,
The golden daffodil died in April's arms,
And the woodbine? Well once, at the end of May,
I saw with grave astonishment a plant
That dared to flower.'
'Sweet Critic, then,' I said,
'I've dared like the woodbine; my daffodils
Lived on to greet you, and my rose was born
Out of due time to blossom on your breast.'
'See, see,' she laughed, 'how good to criticise!
It brings a happy answer; you've done well,
But most because you love me; therefore take
What you like best for guerdon.'
'Give me reward, and of your own sweet will.'
'No, no; but if you take reward with grace
It may be I will give you, what you take.'
At which I kissed her where she lay, but she
Returned my kiss, and kindling at the touch,
Threw her wild arms around my neck, and pressed
Her lips to mine-then springing up, her cheek
Rose-lit with love, raced with me through the wood,
And down the hill, following the noisy brook
That brought us home, when in the vault of Heaven,
The light of Jupiter alone was clear.
Next day, the sun was lord of all the world,
Fierce-breathing like a dragon in the cave
Of the o'erarching sky, and deep in sheltering woods,
Like deer at noon, we seeking covert reached
A grove of mighty chestnuts, from whose edge
Stretched a wide glade, and o'er it moved at will
White clouds of daisies-Smooth the sward, and fit
For tilting knights, or fairy troops to meet,
In battle or in dance, by star or moon.
The birds were still, the shadows of the leaves
Played on my true love's face and on the dress
That, coloured like a hawthorn-blossom, clad
Her beauty with such fitness that she seemed
To wear her own sweet thoughts. Silent she gazed
On the green meadow, thinking of the time
When Chivalry rode glittering through the woods,
And then of Love whose spear smote knight and squire
And page and vassal to the earth-alone
The Conqueror! And then she turned to me,
Herself subdued by love, and smiling said,
'What will my lover give to me to-day?
This is a world where old romance is king.'
'Young is romance,' I answered, 'when your eyes
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