A Garden-Piece

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, And underneath the films and blossoms shone Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown To ripe magnificence in solitude; The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed Her shoulders with her shining hair out blown, And dyed her breast with many a changing tone Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood Among the flowers; She raised her arm up for her dove to know That he might preen him on her lovely head; Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe, Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo! Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, Among the flowers!