My womanhood would cheer.

To me upon my low moss seat,

The madrigals which sweetest are;

For no one entered there but I;

Half-smiling as it came to mind

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,

The time is past; and now that grows

And still I laughed, and did not fear

It something saith for earthly pain,

A thrush made gladness musical

And I behold white sepulchres

The garden is deserted.

The color draws from heaven, --

My childhood from my life is parted,

The trace of human step departed:

Dear God, how seldom, if at all,

Nor he nor I did eer incline

How should I know but roses might

Of science or loves compliment,

Because the garden was deserted,

I hear no more the wind athwart

I crept beneath the boughs, and found

We draw the moral afterward,

The childish time, some happier play

Its fairy circle round: anew

The blither place for me!

And spread their boughs enough about

For men unlearned and simple phrase,)

But that, wheneer was past away

To sanctify her right.

And silk was changed for shroud!

Here moving with a silken noise,

Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay

No more for me! myself afar

And these, to make a diadem,

Adventurous joy it was for me!

To keep both sheep anｈｔtp://www.9９ｌiｂ.netd shepherd out,

When buried lay her whiter brows,

Beneath a poplar tree.

With childish bounds I used to run

By creeping through the thorns!

In silence at the rose-tree wall:

Bedropt with roses waxen-white

That happy child again.

Though never a dream the roses sent

And careless to be seen.

To "Gentle Hermit of the Dale,"

On these the most of all.

In that childs-nest so greenly wrought,

It did not move my grief to see

The greenest grasses Nature laid

I brought dear water from the spring

And passed it neertheless.

I mind me in the days departed,

My footstep from the moss which drew

Praised in its o九九藏书wn low murmuring,

The trees were interwoven wild,

The beds and walks were vanished quite;

We feel the gladness then.

Another thrush may there rehearse

To a garden long deserted.

Long years ago it might befall,

I knew the time would pass away,

Delighting in delight.

Do sing a sadder verse.

The grave old gardener prided him

As well as the white rose, --

Well satisfied with dew and light

Has childhood twixt the sun and sward;

When all the garden flowers were trim,

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns

How often underneath the sun

If I shut this wherein I write

For oft I read within my nook

Lead lives as glad as min九-九-藏-书-网e?

Did I look up to pray!

When graver, meeker thoughts are given,

(Without the melancholy tale)

But more for Heavenly promise free,

I laughed unto myself and thought

Upon the other side.

I called the place my wilderness,

Some lady, stately overmuch,

A child would watch her fair white rose,

And cresses glossy wet.

And wheresoeer had struck the spade,

And Angelina too.

And then I shut the book.

"The time will pass away."

That few would look at them.

I ween they smelt as sweet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken

And yet, beside the rose-tree九-九-藏-书-网 wall,

That likened her to such.

And I have learnt to lift my face,

Reminded how earths greenest place

Made sounds poetic in the trees,

Such minstrel stories; till the breeze

Those trees, nor feel that childish heart

To peck or pluck the blossoms white;

A circle smooth of mossy ground

To make my hermit-home complete,

A child would bring it all its praise

The cypress high among the trees,

And gladdest hours for me did glide

That I who was, would shrink to be

But not a happy child.

She often may have plucked and twined,

The sheep looked in, the grass to espy,

Has blushed beside them at the voice

Oh, little thought that lady proud,