Everywhere
In twilight hour the softer blue
That glows from Summer skies
Is but the borrowed color
Of your sweet eyes.
The wild rose blush in solitude
Beneath the stately pine
Is but a type of that which glows
On lips of thine.
And zephyr low amid the fields
Where flower and leaf rejoice,
Brings back the tender echo
Of thy sweet voice.
For Nature has no melody
On land or Summer sea
That is not set in numbers
That tell of thee.
