“And I have brought a budding world,
  Of orchis spires and daisies rank,
And ferny plumes but half uncurled,
        From yonder bank;

“And I shall weave of them a crown,
  And at the well-head launch it free,
That so the brook may float it down,
        And out to sea.

“There may it to some English hands
  From fairy meadow seem to come;
The fairyest of fairy lands—­
        The land of home.”

“Weave on,” he said, and as she wove
  We told how currents in the deep,
With branches from a lemon grove,
        Blue bergs will sweep.

And messages from shipwrecked folk
  Will navigate the moon-led main,
And painted boards of splintered oak
        Their port regain.

Then floated out by vagrant thought,
  My soul beheld on torrid sand
The wasteful water set at nought
        Man’s skilful hand,

And suck out gold-dust from the box,
  And wash it down in weedy whirls,
And split the wine-keg on the rocks,
        And lose the pearls.

“Ah! why to that which needs it not,”
  Methought, “should costly things be given? 
How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,
        On this side heaven!”

So musing, did mine ears awake
  To maiden tones of sweet reserve,
And manly speech that seemed to make
        The steady curve

Of lips that uttered it defer
  Their guard, and soften for the thought: 
She listened, and his talk with her
        Was fancy fraught.

“There is not much in liberty”—­
  With doubtful pauses he began;
And said to her and said to me,
        “There was a man—­

“There was a man who dreamed one night
  That his dead father came to him;
And said, when fire was low, and light
        Was burning dim—­

“’Why vagrant thus, my sometime pride,
  Unloved, unloving, wilt thou roam? 
Sure home is best!’ The son replied,
        ‘I have no home.’

“‘Shall not I speak?’ his father said,
  ’Who early chose a youthful wife,
And worked for her, and with her led
        My happy life.

“’Ay, I will speak, for I was young
  As thou art now, when I did hold
The prattling sweetness of thy tongue
        Dearer than gold;

“’And rosy from thy noonday sleep
  Would bear thee to admiring kin,
And all thy pretty looks would keep
        My heart within.

“’Then after, mid thy young allies—­
  For thee ambition flushed my brow—­
I coveted the school-boy prize
        Far more than thou.

“’I thought for thee, I thought for all
  My gamesome imps that round me grew;
The dews of blessing heaviest fall
        Where care falls too.

“’And I that sent my boys away,
  In youthful strength to earn their bread,
And died before the hair was gray
        Upon my head—­