GEORGE MEREDITH
Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.
Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.
Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight,
Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley 's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark,
Clear as though the dcwdrops had their voice in him. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the raylcss planet,
Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever
Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.
All the girls are out with their baskets for the piimrose;
Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. My sweet leads, she knows not why, but now she loiters,
Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping,
Coming the rose and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour,
Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.
Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,
Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;
Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming,
Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames. Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting,
Arms up, she dropp'd. our souls were in our names.
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