THE SUMMER-HOUSE.
I built my love a resting bower
Within a glade where forest trees
Stretched o'er the sward their budding boughs,
That chafed and mingled in the breeze.
And wild wood flowers, strange and bright,
Devised in nature's mystic mood,
Around the arbour trellis twined,
And quaintly draped the sombre wood.
Rich butterflies in ceaseless dance
Threaded the blossom-bordered gloom,
And singing bees in summer-time
Rifled each honey-laden bloom.
From here we'd see the timid dawn
Glance shyly from the eastern sky;
Or, in the west, the cloud-built pyre
Flame with the morrow's prophecy.
And oft we'd sit in sultry noons,
When throbbing nature sank to sleep,
And read the lore in love-lit eyes,
Of secrets rare that lovers keep.
Strange living things that underground
In secret places keep their home,
And fangless serpents, void of hurt,
Would to her gentle presence come.
