Dear, the delightful world I see
Holdeth its attributes for thee,
Nor on my heart doth earth intrude
Save to thy grace it hath some rude
Inadequate similitude.
So lilac leaves the showers bespatter,
The dropping acorns’ elfin patter—
These are but echoes of thy feet,
Naked or shod, how fair and fleet
On oaken board or paven street.
The burnish of thy hair is far
Dearer to me than sunsets are—
When, from sheer Compton looking west,
Such gilded after-glows invest
The twilight on the Vale of Test.
Grey mirrors to the blue of the skies
Are the fringed candours of your eyes—
So hoof-prints in the grassy lane,
Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, contain
Celestial leavings of the rain.
But vain the wordy nets I make
To trap the look of thee and take
Thy graces by the wings which be
So sturdy as to flutter free
Yet shall the broke words cast away
Serve for thy monument which say—
“Behold us, all too weak a gin
Too slack a toil to fetter in
The shadows on her childish chin.”