Page:Poems Terry, 1861.djvu/16

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12
Trailing arbutus.
      Were your pure lips fashioned
       Out of air and dew:
      Starlight unimpassioned,
       Dawn's. most tender hue—
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

      Fairest and most lonely,
       From the world apart,
      Made for beauty only,
       Veiled from Nature's heart,
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

      Were not mortal sorrow
       An immortal shade,
      Then would I to-morrow
       Such a flower be made,
And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.