Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/87

Her hand 'mid childhood's curls to place,
From fragrant buds the breath to steal,
Of stranger-guest the brow to trace,
Are pleasures left for her to feel.

And often o'er her hour of thought
Will burst a laugh of wildest glee,
As if the living gems she caught
On wit's fantastic drapery,

As if at length, relenting skies
In pity to her doom severe,
Had bade a mimic morning rise,
The chaos of the soul to cheer.

But who, with energy divine,
May tread that undiscover'd maze,
Where Nature in her curtain'd shrine
The strange and new-born thought surveys?

Where quick perception shrinks to find
On eye and ear the envious seal,
And wild ideas throng the mind,
That palsied speech must ne'er reveal;

Where Instinct, like a robber bold,
Steals sever'd links from Reason's chain,
And leaping o'er her barrier cold,
Proclaims the proud precaution vain.

Say, who shall with magician's wand
That elemental mass compose,
Where young affections slumber fond
Like germs unwak'd 'mid wintry snows?