Sonnet.




When midst the summer-roses the warm bees
     Are swarming in the sun, and thou--so full 
     Of innocent glee--dost with thy white hands pull
Pink scented apples from the garden trees
To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees,
     Like those who gather'd manna ; and I cull
     Some hasty buds to pelt thee--white as wool
Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease ;--
Then I can speak my love, ev'n tho' thy smiles 
     Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock
Of bright birds from rose-bowers ; but when thou'rt gone
     I have no speech,--no magic that beguiles,
     The stream of utterance from the harden'd rock :--
The dial cannot speak without the sun ! 



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Last modified 5/11/95