One of the young poets of the farm many years ago paid this graceful tribute to her charms:-- OF MARY BULLARD. Dearly love I to be near her-- Though thought of her is not dearer Than friendship may say. Yet around will I hover; Bringing joy like a lover, To brighten her day. Ever am I lingering near her-- Her whole soul seems to me clearer Than others that are. And her love-lighted blue eye, When an aching heart is nigh, Beams forth like a star. It's good for me to be near her-- Should she e'er sorrow, to cheer her Out of her sad moods; Her dark path to make lighter, And behold it grow brighter Like sunlight through woods. Still stay I lovingly near her, Enraptured--sometimes I fear her Soul is on its wings-- And ask will it yet return?-- Seems it so pure, so lost and gone, Whenever she sings. Lingering and waiting near her-- The words that she speaks are dearer Than birds' songs in May. With sweet thoughts will I surround her, As on the day I first found her, Forever--for aye. I have been particular in my description of this lady and friend, because they became the encouragers of the later movement in Boston, where those who remained true to the Brook Farm ideas formed themselves into a society of zealots to propagate the faith, she giving her splendid talents and her warm enthusiasm freely to the movement, and because they were as truly united with us as if enrolled as members on the farm. It was in the latter part of the month of January that we had the fulfilment of a promise of a long visit from the fair singer. The winter had grown cold and stormy; the white snow covered the fields, and at times we gleefully slid down the hills over its frozen crust on sleds and improvised vehicles. And there were days of transcendent beauty. I remember especially, a solitary visit to the pine woods after a deep snow storm, and the lifelong impression of it remains. The evergreens were bowed heavily with the weight of the snow, and across the wood path birches and various trees bent as if in prayer, obstructing the way. The clear air, which was not very cold--for it was one of those subdued days of winter, when the glare of the sun was obstructed by a cloudy mantle--the intense quiet, the strong contrasts of the dark trunks of trees with the heavy evergreens, and the immaculate purity of whiteness laid on by the greatest and sublimest painter were so marked and so lovely that I seemed to be drinking the nectar of the god of beauty, and was soul-subdued.