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| HERE, where precipitate Spring with one light bound | |
| Into hot Summer’s lusty arms expires, | |
| And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, | |
| Soft airs that want the lute to play with ’em, | |
| And softer sighs that know not what they want, | 5 |
| Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, | |
| Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones | |
| Of sights in Fiesole right up above, | |
| While I was gazing a few paces off | |
| At what they seem’d to show me with their nods, | 10 |
| Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, | |
| A gentle maid came down the garden-steps | |
| And gather’d the pure treasure in her lap. | |
| I heard the branches rustle, and stepp’d forth | |
| To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, | 15 |
| Such I believ’d it must be. How could I | |
| Let beast o’erpower them? when hath wind or rain | |
| Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, | |
| And I (however they might bluster round) | |
| Walk’d off? ’T were most ungrateful: for sweet scents | 20 |
| Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, | |
| And nurse and pillow the dull memory | |
| That would let drop without them her best stores. | |
| They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, | |
| And ’t is and ever was my wish and way | 25 |
| To let all flowers live freely, and all die | |
| (Whene’er their Genius bids their souls depart) | |
| Among their kindred in their native place. | |
| I never pluck the rose; the violet’s head | |
| Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank | 30 |
| And not reproach’d me; the ever-sacred cup | |
| Of the pure lily hath between my hands | |
| Felt safe, unsoil’d, nor lost one grain of gold. | |
| I saw the light that made the glossy leaves | |
| More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek | 35 |
| Warm’d by the eye intent on its pursuit; | |
| I saw the foot that, although half-erect | |
| From its gray slipper, could not lift her up | |
| To what she wanted: I held down a branch | |
| And gather’d her some blossoms; since their hour | 40 |
| Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies | |
| Of harder wing were working their way through | |
| And scattering them in fragments under foot. | |
| So crisp were some, they rattled unevolv’d, | |
| Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, | 45 |
| Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, | |
| And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun: | |
| Yet every one her gown receiv’d from me | |
| Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, | |
| But so she prais’d them to reward my care. | 50 |
| I said, “You find the largest.” | |
| “This indeed,” | |
| Cried she, “is large and sweet.” She held one forth, | |
| Whether for me to look at or to take | |
| She knew not, nor did I; but taking it | 55 |
| Would best have solv’d (and this she felt) her doubt. | |
| I dar’d not touch it; for it seem’d a part | |
| Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature | |
| Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch | |
| To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back | 60 |
| The boon she tender’d, and then, finding not | |
| The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, | |
| Dropp’d it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. | |
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