As a young forest while the wind drives through,
My life is stirred when she breaks on my view;
   Her beauty grants my will no choice
   But silent awe, till she rejoice
      My longing with her voice.

Her warbling voice, though ever low and mild,
Oft makes me feel as strong wine would a child: 
   And though her hand be airy light
   Of touch, it moves me with its might,
      As would a sudden fright.

A hawk high poised in air, whose nerved wing-tips
Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,
   In vigilance, hangs less intense
   Than I, when her voice holds my sense
      Contented in suspense.

Her mention of a thing, august or poor,
Makes it far 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, when I hear strangers use,
Not meaning her, sounds to me lax misuse;
   I love none but My Lady’s name;
   Maud, Grace, Rose, Marian, all the same,
      Are harsh, or blank and tame.

My Lady walks as I have seen a swan
Swim where a glory on the water shone: 
   There ends of willow branches ride,
   Quivering in the flowing tide,
      By the deep river’s side.

Fresh beauties, howsoe’er she moves, are stirred: 
As the sunned bosom of a humming bird
   At each pant lifts some fiery hue,
   Fierce gold, bewildering green or blue;
      The same, yet ever new.

What time she walks beneath the flowering May,
Quite sure am I the scented blossoms say,
   “O Lady with the sunlit hair! 
   Stay and drink our odorous air,
      The incense that we bear: 

“Thy beauty, Lady, we would ever shade;
For near to thee, our sweetness might not fade.” 
   And could the trees be broken-hearted,
   The green sap surely must have smarted,
      When my Lady parted.

How beautiful she is!  A glorious gem
She shines above the summer diadem
   Of flowers!  And when her light is seen
   Among them, all in reverence lean
      To her, their tending Queen.

A man so poor that want assaults his health,
Blessed with relief one morn in boundless wealth,
   Breathes no such joy as mine, when she
   Stands statelier, expecting me,
      Than tall white lilies be: 

And the white flutter of her robe to trace,
Where clematis and 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 universal life is drowned
      Into hushed depths of sound.

We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray
With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,
   And force sweet pauses on our walk;
   I lift one with my foot, and talk
      About its leaves and stalk.