THE SNARE
Dear, the delightful world I seeHoldeth its attributes for thee,Nor on my heart doth earth intrudeSave to thy grace it hath some rudeInadequate similitude.So lilac leaves the showers bespatter,The dropping acorns’ elfin patter—These are but echoes of thy feet,Naked or shod, how fair and fleetOn oaken board or paven street.The burnish of thy hair is farDearer to me than sunsets are—When, from sheer Compton looking west,Such gilded after-glows investThe twilight on the Vale of Test.Grey mirrors to the blue of the skiesAre the fringed candours of your eyes—So hoof-prints in the grassy lane,Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, containCelestial leavings of the rain.But vain the wordy nets I makeTo trap the look of thee and takeThy graces by the wings which beSo sturdy as to flutter freeYet shall the broke words cast awayServe for thy monument which say—“Behold us, all too weak a ginToo slack a toil to fetter inThe shadows on her childish chin.”
Dear, the delightful world I seeHoldeth its attributes for thee,Nor on my heart doth earth intrudeSave to thy grace it hath some rudeInadequate similitude.So lilac leaves the showers bespatter,The dropping acorns’ elfin patter—These are but echoes of thy feet,Naked or shod, how fair and fleetOn oaken board or paven street.The burnish of thy hair is farDearer to me than sunsets are—When, from sheer Compton looking west,Such gilded after-glows investThe twilight on the Vale of Test.Grey mirrors to the blue of the skiesAre the fringed candours of your eyes—So hoof-prints in the grassy lane,Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, containCelestial leavings of the rain.But vain the wordy nets I makeTo trap the look of thee and takeThy graces by the wings which beSo sturdy as to flutter freeYet shall the broke words cast awayServe for thy monument which say—“Behold us, all too weak a ginToo slack a toil to fetter inThe shadows on her childish chin.”
Dear, the delightful world I seeHoldeth its attributes for thee,Nor on my heart doth earth intrudeSave to thy grace it hath some rudeInadequate similitude.
So lilac leaves the showers bespatter,The dropping acorns’ elfin patter—These are but echoes of thy feet,Naked or shod, how fair and fleetOn oaken board or paven street.
The burnish of thy hair is farDearer to me than sunsets are—When, from sheer Compton looking west,Such gilded after-glows investThe twilight on the Vale of Test.
Grey mirrors to the blue of the skiesAre the fringed candours of your eyes—So hoof-prints in the grassy lane,Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, containCelestial leavings of the rain.
But vain the wordy nets I makeTo trap the look of thee and takeThy graces by the wings which beSo sturdy as to flutter free
Yet shall the broke words cast awayServe for thy monument which say—“Behold us, all too weak a ginToo slack a toil to fetter inThe shadows on her childish chin.”