My lady’s voice, altho’ so very mild,
  Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child;
    My lady’s touch, however slight,
    Moves all my senses with its might,
    Like to a sudden fright.

  A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips
  Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,—­
    In vigilance, not more intense
    Than I; when her word’s gentle sense
    Makes full-eyed my suspense.

  Her mention of a thing—­august or poor,
  Makes it seem nobler than it was before: 
    As where the sun strikes, life will gush,
    And what is pale receive a flush,
    Rich hues—­a richer blush.

  My lady’s name, if I hear strangers use,—­
  Not meaning her—­seems like a lax misuse. 
    I love none by my lady’s name;
    Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same,
    So blank, so very tame.

  My lady walks as I have seen a swan
  Swim thro’ the water just where the sun shone. 
    There ends of willow branches ride,
    Quivering with the current’s glide,
    By the deep river-side.

  Whene’er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred;
  As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird
    At each pant shows some fiery hue,
    Burns gold, intensest green or blue: 
    The same, yet ever new.

  What time she walketh under flowering May,
  I am quite sure the scented blossoms say,
    “O lady with the sunlit hair! 
    “Stay, and drink our odorous air—­
    “The incense that we bear: 

  “Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade;
  “Being near you, our sweetness might not fade.” 
    If trees could be broken-hearted,
    I am sure that the green sap smarted,
    When my lady parted.

  This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;—­
  Because one day I saw my lady pull
    Some weeds up near a little brook,
    Which home most carefully she took,
    Then shut them in a book.

  A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,—­
  A bird escaping from the falcon’s trounce,
    Feels his heart swell as mine, when she
    Stands statelier, expecting me,
    Than tall white lilies be.

  The first white flutter of her robe to trace,
  Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace,
    Expands my gaze triumphantly: 
    Even such his gaze, who sees on high
    His flag, for victory.

  We wander forth unconsciously, because
  The azure beauty of the evening draws: 
    When sober hues pervade the ground,
    And life in one vast hush seems drowned,
    Air stirs so little sound.

  We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray
  With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,
    (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk): 
    I’ll lift one with my foot, and talk
    About its leaves and stalk.

  Or may be that the prickles of some stem
  Will hold a prisoner her long garment’s hem;
    To disentangle it I kneel,
    Oft wounding more than I can heal;
    It makes her laugh, my zeal.