I
How
warm this woodland wild Recess !
Love surely hath been breathing here ;
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear !
Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.
II
Eight springs have flown,
since last I lay
On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
Float hear and there, like things astray,
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.
III
No voice as yet had made
the air
Be music with your name ; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ?
That sense of promise every where ?
Beloved! flew your spirit by ?
IV
As when a mother doth
explore
The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild !
As whom I long had loved before--
So deeply had I been beguiled.
V
You stood before me like a
thought,
A dream remembered in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought--
Greta, dear domestic stream!
VI
Has not, since then, Love's
prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in clamor's hour.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge