THE WORSHIPPERS
When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers setsThe first white violets,And she hath reared them in her soft brown fist,Ev’n to my stooping mouth till they be kist:—Shall I allow my kiss more fainly lingersAmong her baby fingers,Where (for all pride of perfume that they shed),The very violets be out-violetted?Great is her portion whose auriferous minesYield new-coin’d celandines,Her dowry hoarded in the hedge-row’s heartTill the March wind hath blown the buds apart;For her delight these gay-wrought tassels beBy name Dog’s Mercury,For her delight I scour from wood to wood,Lured by one lode-star with her Babyhood.Dare I avow then, Betsey, that your groveHath not mine only love?Have we not quit a brave and bustling worldFor catkins and the cuckoo-pint uncurl’d?So, while your wind-blown cheek to mine you press,I know you’ll never guessWhereto my woodland incense I prefer—And that I worship you, dear worshipper.
When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers setsThe first white violets,And she hath reared them in her soft brown fist,Ev’n to my stooping mouth till they be kist:—Shall I allow my kiss more fainly lingersAmong her baby fingers,Where (for all pride of perfume that they shed),The very violets be out-violetted?Great is her portion whose auriferous minesYield new-coin’d celandines,Her dowry hoarded in the hedge-row’s heartTill the March wind hath blown the buds apart;For her delight these gay-wrought tassels beBy name Dog’s Mercury,For her delight I scour from wood to wood,Lured by one lode-star with her Babyhood.Dare I avow then, Betsey, that your groveHath not mine only love?Have we not quit a brave and bustling worldFor catkins and the cuckoo-pint uncurl’d?So, while your wind-blown cheek to mine you press,I know you’ll never guessWhereto my woodland incense I prefer—And that I worship you, dear worshipper.
When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers setsThe first white violets,And she hath reared them in her soft brown fist,Ev’n to my stooping mouth till they be kist:—Shall I allow my kiss more fainly lingersAmong her baby fingers,Where (for all pride of perfume that they shed),The very violets be out-violetted?
Great is her portion whose auriferous minesYield new-coin’d celandines,Her dowry hoarded in the hedge-row’s heartTill the March wind hath blown the buds apart;For her delight these gay-wrought tassels beBy name Dog’s Mercury,For her delight I scour from wood to wood,Lured by one lode-star with her Babyhood.
Dare I avow then, Betsey, that your groveHath not mine only love?Have we not quit a brave and bustling worldFor catkins and the cuckoo-pint uncurl’d?So, while your wind-blown cheek to mine you press,I know you’ll never guessWhereto my woodland incense I prefer—And that I worship you, dear worshipper.