III Saint Lucy of the Eyes
I
[Taken from the Journals of Travel written by Stephen Douglas, sometime of Culsharg in Galloway.]
O mellow rain upon the clover tops;
O breath of morning blown o’er meadow-sweet;
Lush apple-blooms from which the wild bee drops
Inebriate; O hayfield scents, my feet
Scatter abroad some morning in July;
O wildwood odours of the birch and pine,
And heather breaths from great red hill-tops nigh,
Than olive sweeter or Sicilian vine;—
Not all of you, nor summer lands of balm—
Not blest Arabia,
Nor coral isles in seas of tropic calm.
Such heart’s desire into my heart can draw.
II
O scent of sea on dreaming April morn
Borne landward on a steady-blowing wind;
O August breeze, o’er leagues of rustling corn,
Wafts of clear air from uplands left behind,
And outbreathed sweetness of wet wallflower bed,
O set in mid-May depth of orchard close,
Tender germander blue, geranium red;
O expressed sweetness of sweet briar-rose;
Too gross, corporeal, absolute are ye,
Ye help not to define
That subtle fragrance, delicate and free,
Which like a vesture clothes this Love of mine.
“Heart’s Delight.”