At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,
  At the second she turned aside, 90
At the third, ’twas as if a lily flushed
  With a rose’s red heart’s tide.

‘Good counsel gave the bird,’ said she,
  ’I have my hope thrice o’er,
For they sing to my very heart,’ she said,
  ‘And it sings to them evermore.’

She brought to him her beauty and truth,
  But and broad earldoms three,
And he made her queen of the broader lands
  He held of his lute in fee. 100

SEAWEED

Not always unimpeded can I pray,
Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim;
Too closely clings the burden of the day,
And all the mint and anise that I pay
But swells my debt and deepens my self-blame.

Shall I less patience have than Thou, who know
That Thou revisit’st all who wait for thee,
Nor only fill’st the unsounded deeps below,
But dost refresh with punctual overflow
The rifts where unregarded mosses be?

The drooping seaweed hears, in night abyssed,
Far and more far the wave’s receding shocks,
Nor doubts, for all the darkness and the mist,
That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst,
And shoreward lead again her foam-fleeced flocks.

For the same wave that rims the Carib shore
With momentary brede of pearl and gold,
Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar
Lorn weeds bound fast on rocks of Labrador,
By love divine on one sweet errand rolled.

And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw,
I, too, can wait and feed on hope of Thee
And of the dear recurrence of Thy law,
Sure that the parting grace my morning saw
Abides its time to come in search of me.

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE

There lay upon the ocean’s shore
What once a tortoise served to cover;
A year and more, with rush and roar,
The surf had rolled it over,
Had played with it, and flung it by,
As wind and weather might decide it,
Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry
Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan,
The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;
With many a ban the fisherman
Had stumbled o’er and spurned it;
And there the fisher-girl would stay,
Conjecturing with her brother
How in their play the poor estray
Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry
As empty as the last new sonnet,
Till by and by came Mercury,
And, having mused upon it,
‘Why, here,’ cried he, ’the thing of things
In shape, material, and dimension! 
Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings,
A wonderful invention!’

So said, so done; the chords he strained,
And, as his fingers o’er them hovered,
The shell disdained a soul had gained,
The lyre had been discovered. 
O empty world that round us lies,
Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,
Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s,
In thee what songs should waken!