We feel the gladness then.

And I behold white sepulchres

And cresses glossy wet.

In that childs-nest so greenly wrought,

Nor he nor I did eer incline

The madrigals which sweetest are;

And I have learnt to lift my face,

Here moving with a silken noise,

Has blushed beside them at the voice

But more for Heavenly promise free,

I mind me in the days departed,

She often may have plucked and twined,

I called the place my wilderness,

As well as the white rose, --

Lead lives as glad as mine?

Delighting in delight.

Well satisfied with dew and light

That likened her to such.

And these, to make a diadem,

The blither plac藏书网e for me!

(Without the melancholy tale)

How should I know but roses might

To a garden long deserted.

Do sing a sadder verse.

I ween they smelt as sweet.

It something saith for earthly pain,

Did I look up to pray!

Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay

Because the garden was deserted,

The trace of human step departed:

With childish bounds I used to run

The grave old gardener prided him

The time will pass away.

On these the most of all.

Another thrush may there rehearse

I laughed unto myself and thought

A circle smooth of mossy ground

It did not move my grief to see

By creeping through the thorns!

And still I la九*九*藏*书*网ughed, and did not fear

For men unlearned and simple phrase,)

A thrush made gladness musical

To sanctify her right.

The greenest grasses Nature laid

For no one entered there but I;

The childish time, some happier play

Though never a dream the roses sent

The color draws from heaven, --

When buried lay her whiter brows,

To Gentle Hermit of the Dale,

To peck or pluck the blossoms white;

And careless to be seen.

And wheresoeer had struck the spade,

Dear God, how seldom, if at all,

And spread their boughs enough about

Of science or loves compliment,

For oft I read within my nook

To make my hermit-home comple藏书网te,

Those trees, nor feel that childish heart

In silence at the rose-tree wall:

We draw the moral afterward,

But not a happy child.

The beds and walks were vanished quite;

The sheep looked in, the grass to espy,

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,

My womanhood would cheer.

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken

And then I shut the book.

Upon the other side.

To me upon my low moss seat,

Has childhood twixt the sun and sward;

How often underneath the sun

Some lady, stately overmuch,

I brought dear water from the spring

I knew the time would pass away,

My footstep from the moss which drew

But that, wheneer was pas九*九*藏*书*网t away

And Angelina too.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew

When graver, meeker thoughts are given,

Made sounds poetic in the trees,

And gladdest hours for me did glide

Reminded how earths greenest place

Bedropt with roses waxen-white

And silk was changed for shroud!

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns

Half-smiling as it came to mind

If I shut this wherein I write

To keep both sheep and shepherd out,

My childhood from my life is parted,

Praised in its own low murmuring,

The time is past; and now that grows

A child would watch her fair white rose,

Oh, little thoug九九藏书ht that lady proud,

That I who was, would shrink to be

And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,

The trees were interwoven wild,

I hear no more the wind athwart

Its fairy circle round: anew

That happy child again.

The cypress high among the trees,

No more for me! myself afar

I crept beneath the boughs, and found

A child would bring it all its praise

When all the garden flowers were trim,

That few would look at them.

Adventurous joy it was for me!

Beneath a poplar tree.

And passed it neertheless.

Such minstrel stories; till the breeze

Long years ago it might befall,

The garden is deserted.