| |
| AS the tree puts forth its flowers, | |
| Time at certain seasons dowers | |
| Men with moments so delicious | |
| They forget all former hours. | |
| |
| Magic hints that wake the mind | 5 |
| From the sleep that seals mankind— | |
| Raptures, tumults, yearnings, visions, | |
| Light that breaks upon the blind. | |
| |
| Charmed in circles of the sea, | |
| Island of love’s mystery, | 10 |
| There are old, pathetic secrets | |
| Only known to you and me. | |
| |
| Children of the summertide, | |
| Free from care and wrath and pride, | |
| We were happy while we wandered | 15 |
| Up and down the long sea-side. | |
| |
| Round the seagull’s rocky home | |
| Azure waves through fretted foam | |
| Glanced and glowed like lancet windows, | |
| Sapphire in an ivory dome. | 20 |
| |
| Far afield a rain of light | |
| Washed the utmost sea-wave white; | |
| Heaved and rolled in blinding splendor, | |
| League on league of chrysolite. | |
| |
| Did we tread on beaten ground? | 25 |
| Were the waves that rocked us round | |
| Lapping on some isle of wonder | |
| Dropped within the coral sound? | |
| |
| Fainter than a cloud, the moon | |
| Floated up the sky too soon: | 30 |
| Round us on the brooding valley | |
| Slept the summer afternoon. | |
| |
| Every golden hour went by | |
| Like a bead of tracery | |
| Strung upon an Indian necklace | 35 |
| To enchant a sultan’s eye. | |
| |
| How the stars, that hallowed night, | |
| Seemed to pulse with our delight, | |
| Notes of some mysterious music | |
| That we dared not read aright. | 40 |
| |
| Every star that downward fell | |
| Struck far off a mystic knell: | |
| Then the whole wide heaven about us | |
| Boomed to silence, like a bell. | |
| |
| Something softer in the air | 45 |
| Whispered to our hearts beware: | |
| It was an enchanted region, | |
| And we might not tarry there. | |
| |
| Long we sate and never spake, | |
| Lest the light illusion break. | 50 |
| We had fallen asleep together, | |
| And we could not bear to wake. | |
| |
| Never to that haunted shore | |
| Bid me bend my voyage more. | |
| Bitter thorns are left to harvest | 55 |
| Where we gathered blooms before. | |
| |
