TO A YOUNG LADY.
When Morn, in spring glory,Salutes the dull earth,How sweet is her storyOf music and mirth.The happy leaves glistenAnd tremble around,The young blossoms listenWith joy to the sound.They tell by their blushes,Their soft breathing proves,That night’s dewy hushesPromoted their loves.The murmur of grasses,The singing of birds,In sweetness surpassesThe compass of words.Far away on the mountainThe mist is on fire,And the joy of the fountainCan soar up no higher.A tremor of gladnessPervadeth the air,And no touch of sadnessCan rest anywhere.We cease to be mortalIn moments like this,And enter the portalOf absolute bliss.At noon, and at even,We think of the morn,In the midst of whose heavenSuch beauty is born.’Tis thus I shall cherishTill life’s gloaming end,And never let perishThe face of a friend.Then come, gentle maiden,And dwell with the fewThat in my soul’s AidennI know to be true;—Some distant, some sleepingThe sleep of the just,Are here in the keepingOf memory’s trust.With these let thy spiritAbide in its place,So shall I inheritNew goodness and grace.
When Morn, in spring glory,Salutes the dull earth,How sweet is her storyOf music and mirth.The happy leaves glistenAnd tremble around,The young blossoms listenWith joy to the sound.They tell by their blushes,Their soft breathing proves,That night’s dewy hushesPromoted their loves.The murmur of grasses,The singing of birds,In sweetness surpassesThe compass of words.Far away on the mountainThe mist is on fire,And the joy of the fountainCan soar up no higher.A tremor of gladnessPervadeth the air,And no touch of sadnessCan rest anywhere.We cease to be mortalIn moments like this,And enter the portalOf absolute bliss.At noon, and at even,We think of the morn,In the midst of whose heavenSuch beauty is born.’Tis thus I shall cherishTill life’s gloaming end,And never let perishThe face of a friend.Then come, gentle maiden,And dwell with the fewThat in my soul’s AidennI know to be true;—Some distant, some sleepingThe sleep of the just,Are here in the keepingOf memory’s trust.With these let thy spiritAbide in its place,So shall I inheritNew goodness and grace.
When Morn, in spring glory,Salutes the dull earth,How sweet is her storyOf music and mirth.
The happy leaves glistenAnd tremble around,The young blossoms listenWith joy to the sound.
They tell by their blushes,Their soft breathing proves,That night’s dewy hushesPromoted their loves.
The murmur of grasses,The singing of birds,In sweetness surpassesThe compass of words.
Far away on the mountainThe mist is on fire,And the joy of the fountainCan soar up no higher.
A tremor of gladnessPervadeth the air,And no touch of sadnessCan rest anywhere.
We cease to be mortalIn moments like this,And enter the portalOf absolute bliss.
At noon, and at even,We think of the morn,In the midst of whose heavenSuch beauty is born.
’Tis thus I shall cherishTill life’s gloaming end,And never let perishThe face of a friend.
Then come, gentle maiden,And dwell with the fewThat in my soul’s AidennI know to be true;—
Some distant, some sleepingThe sleep of the just,Are here in the keepingOf memory’s trust.
With these let thy spiritAbide in its place,So shall I inheritNew goodness and grace.