Ix

Homeward through flowers; she speaks:

Behold the offerings of the common hills! Whose lowly names have made them three times dear: One evening-primrose and an apron-full Of violets; and there, in multitudes, Dim-seen in moonlight, sweet cerulean wan, The bluet, making heaven of every dell With morn’s ambrosial blue: dew-dropping plumes Of the mauve beard’s-tongue; and the red-freaked cups Of blackberry-lilies all along the creek, Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague The water flows, when, at high noon, the cows Wade knee-deep, and the heat is honied with The drone of drowsy bees and dizzy flies. How bright the moon is on that fleur-de-lis; Blue, streaked with crystal like a summer day: And is it moonlight there? or is it flowers? White violets? lilies? or a daisy bed? And now the wind, with softest lullaby, Swings all their cradled heads and rocks-to-sleep Their fragrant faces and their golden eyes, Curtained, and frailly wimpled with the dew.

Simple suggestions of a life most fair! Flowers, you speak of love and untaught faith, Whose habitation is within the soul, Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed....

What is it halcyons my heart? makes calm, With calmness not of knowledge, all my soul This night of nights?--Is ’t love? or faith? or both?-- The lore of all the world is less than these Simple suggestions of a life most fair, And love most sweet that I have learned to know!