14
By the verge of the woodland,
Where purling brooks loosen their brown tresses,
Where the music of the breeze
Is played on viols of the vines and trees,
Thy soft words I hear
Like songs from enchantment’s strings.
Ah, vanishing moments of ecstacy!
Far-fleeing only to be nearer to my soul,
Rest, rest awhile on the hillside of my echoing!
Pour on it the sweet rain of thy words’ melody
Till they mingle and drown my tears
Into thy kisses’ passion-swept sea.