130 A DEAD ROSE. A DEAD ROSE. O ROSE! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But barren, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat, The breeze that used to blow thee If breathing now-unsweetened would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn- The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grew incarnadined, because If dropping now-would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,— If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee. The bee that once did suck thee, The heart doth recognise thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee! E. B. Browning. 9* 132 THE DAFFODILS. THE DAFFODILS. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Continuous as the stars that shine Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they In such a jocund company: I gazed-and gazed-but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie W. Wordsworth. SEA MEWS IN WINTER-TIME. I WALKED beside a dark grey sea, For joy and warmth from thee depart. "Yon rising wave licks off the snow, Winds on the crag each other chase, In little powdery whirls they blow The misty fragments down its face. "The sea is cold, and dark its rim, I spoke, and drew toward a rock Where many mews made twittering sweet; Their wings upreared, the clustering flock Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. A rock but half submerged, the sea Joy companied with every cry, Joy in their food, in that keen wind, That heaving sea, that shaded sky, And in themselves, and in their kind, 134 SEA MEWS IN WINTER-TIME. The phantoms of the deep at play! And delicate lifting up of wings. Then all at once a flight, and fast The lovely crowd flew out to sea; Earth had not looked more changed to me. "Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies "The cold is not in crag, nor scar, "No, nor in yon exultant wind That shakes the oak and bends the pine, With that I felt the gloom depart, J. Ingelow. |