Or maybe that some thorn or prickly stem
Will take a prisoner her long garments’ hem;
   To disentangle it I kneel,
   Oft wounding more than I can heal;
      It makes her laugh, my zeal.

Or on before a thin-legged robin hops,
And leaping on a twig, he pertly stops,
   Speaking a few clear notes, till nigh
   We draw, when briskly he will fly
      Into a bush close by.

A flock of goldfinches arrest their flight,
And wheeling round a birchen tree alight
   Deep in its glittering leaves; and stay
   Till scared at our approach, when they
      Strike with vexed trills away.

I recollect My Lady in the wood,
Keeping her breath, while peering as she stood
   There, balanced lightly on tiptoe,
   To mark a nest built snug below,
      Leaves shadowing her brow.

I recollect her puzzled, asking me,
What that strange tapping in the wood might be? 
   I told of gourmand thrushes, which,
   To feast on morsels oosy rich,
      Cracked poor snails’ curling niche.

And then, as knight led captive, in romance,
Through postern and dark passage, past grim glance
   Of arms; where from throned state the dame
   He loved, in sumptuous blushes came
      To him held dumb for shame: 

Even so my spirit passed, and won, through fears
That trembled nigh despair; through foolish tears,
   And hope fallen weak in breathless flight,
   Where beamed in pure entrancing light
      Love’s beauty on my sight.

For when we reached a hollow, where the stone
And scattered fragments of the shells lay strown,
   By margin of a weedy rill;
   “This air,” she said, “feels damp and chill,
      We’ll go home if you will.”

“Make not my pathway dull so soon,” I cried;
“See how yon clouds of rosy eventide
   Roll out their splendour:  while the breeze
   Shifts gold from leaf to leaf, as these
      Lithe saplings move at ease!”

Grateful, in her deep silence, one loud thrush
Startled the air with song; then every bush
   Of covert songsters all awoke,
   And all, as to their leader’s stroke,
      Into full chorus broke.

A lonely wind sighed up the pines, and sung
Of woes long past, forgot.  My spirit hung
   O’er awful gulfs:  and loathly dread
   So bitter was I wished me dead,
      And from a great void said;

“Wait till its glory fade; the sun but burned
To light your loveliness!” The Lady turned
   To me, flushed by its lingering rays,
   Mute as a star.  My frantic praise
      Fixed wide her brightened gaze: 

When, rapt in resolution, I told all
The mighty love I bore her; how would pall
   My very breath of life, if she
   For ever breathed not hers with me:—­
      Could I a spirit be,

How, vainly hoping to enrich her grace,
What gems and wonders would I snatch from space;
   Would back through the vague distance beat,
   Glowing with joy her smile to meet,
      And heap them round her feet!