All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine,--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-- Truth, that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl,-- Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe,--all were for me In the kiss of one girl. * * * * * A FACE If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pure gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. Then her little neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver on the pale gold ground Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only massed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. * * * * * SONGS FROM PIPPA PASSES Day! Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim. Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 10 Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. All service ranks the same with God: If now, as formerly He trod Paradise, His presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work--God's puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first. The year's at the spring And day's at the morn: 20 Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in His heaven-- All's right with the world! Give her but a least excuse to love me! When--where-- How--can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 30 There already, to eternally reprove me? ("Hist!"--said Kate the queen; But "Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes!")