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170
MY GLADE IN THE WEST.
The drooping beech-branches sweep low at my feet;
The trefoil spreads o'er me her tremulous screen;
The tubes of the partridge-vine lowly and sweet,
Are rosily flushing their tendrils of green.
The trefoil spreads o'er me her tremulous screen;
The tubes of the partridge-vine lowly and sweet,
Are rosily flushing their tendrils of green.
The fair uniflora, in infantile white;
Lies crouched 'neath the royal-fern's plumiest crest;
We are buried in greenery, deep out of sight,—
This flower and my soul,—in the wilds of the West.
Lies crouched 'neath the royal-fern's plumiest crest;
We are buried in greenery, deep out of sight,—
This flower and my soul,—in the wilds of the West.
While the thrush—ah the thrush! if the flower of the rose
Spell-changed into music from vision should fade,
All her bountiful being, her raptures, her woes,
Would pour through the song of this bird of the glade.
Spell-changed into music from vision should fade,
All her bountiful being, her raptures, her woes,
Would pour through the song of this bird of the glade.
Cease, minstrel of love! lift thy wings and depart;
Let the low, liquid cadences falter and close;
For their sadness and sweetness are brimming my heart;
I am filled with the soul of the flower of the rose.
Let the low, liquid cadences falter and close;
For their sadness and sweetness are brimming my heart;
I am filled with the soul of the flower of the rose.
