And then, like minute-drops of rain
  Ringing in water silvery,
They lingering dropped and dropped again,
Till it was almost like a pain
  To listen when the next would be.

SONG

To M.L.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
  A lily-bud not opened quite,
  That hourly grew more pure and white,
By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: 
  In all of nature thou hadst thy share;
    Thou wast waited on
    By the wind and sun;
  The rain and the dew for thee took care;
  It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
  A lily-bud; but oh, how strange,
  How full of wonder was the change,
When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom burst! 
  How did the tears to my glad eyes start,
    When the woman-flower
    Reached its blossoming hour,
And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart!

Glad death may pluck thee, but never before
  The gold dust of thy bloom divine
  Hath dropped from thy heart into mine,
To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore;
For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away
    Some impulses bright
    Of fragrance and light,
Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray,
To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.

ALLEGRA

I would more natures were like thine,
  That never casts a glance before,
Thou Hebe, who thy heart’s bright wine
  So lavishly to all dost pour,
That we who drink forget to pine,
  And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life;
  With sunward instinct thou dost rise,
And, leaving clouds below at strife,
  Gazest undazzled at the skies,
With all their blazing splendors rife,
  A songful lark with eagle’s eyes.

Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours
  Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth;
Some influence more gay than ours
  Hath ruled thy nature from its birth,
As if thy natal stars were flowers
  That shook their seeds round thee on earth.

And thou, to lull thine infant rest,
  Wast cradled like an Indian child;
All pleasant winds from south and west
  With lullabies thine ears beguiled,
Rocking thee in thine oriole’s nest,
  Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.

Thine every fancy seems to borrow
  A sunlight from thy childish years,
Making a golden cloud of sorrow,
  A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,—­
Thy heart is certain of to-morrow,
  Though ’yond to-day it never peers.

I would more natures were like thine,
  So innocently wild and free,
Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine,
  Like sunny wavelets in the sea,
Making us mindless of the brine,
  In gazing on the brilliancy.