Tenaed the garden from morn to even; And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth, Laugh'd round her footsteps up from the earth! She had no companion of mortal race, But her tremulous breath and her flushing face, Told, whilst the morn kiss'd the sleep from her eyes, That her dreams were less slumber than paradise, As if some bright spirit for her sweet sake Though the veil of daylight conceal'd him from her. Her step seem'd to pity the grass it prest; And wherever her airy footstep trod, I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet I doubt not they felt the spirit that came She sprinkled bright water from the stream She lifted their heads with her tender hands, And sustain'd them with rods and osier bands; If the flowers had been her own infants, she Could never have nursed them more tenderly. And all killing insects and gnawing worms, In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full, But the bee and the beam-like ephemeris, kiss The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she Make her attendant angels be. And many an antenatal tomb, Where butterflies dream of the life to come, This fairest creature from earliest spring And ere the first leaf look'd brown-she died! PART III. Three days the flowers of the garden fair, And on the fourth, the sensitive plant And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, The weary sound and the heavy breath, The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, Were bright with tears as the crowds did pass; From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, Swift summer into the autumn flow'd, The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, And Indian plants, of scent and hue The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, Were massed into the common clay. And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray and red And white with the whiteness of what is dead, Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind pass'd; Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds Till they clung round many a sweet flower's stem The water-blooms under the rivulet Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks Between the time of the wind and the snow, Whose coarse leaves were splash'd with many speck, Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's back. The sensitive plant, like one forbid, Wept, and the tears within each lid Of its folded leaves, which together grew, For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; |