Her mind with sweets was laden, like a morning breath in June, And her thoughts awoke in harmony, like dreamings of a tune, And you heard her words like voices that o'er the waters creep, Or like a serenader's lute that mingles with your sleep. She had an earnest intellect--a perfect thirst of mind, And a heart by elevated thoughts and poetry refin'd, And she saw a subtle tint or shade with every careless look, And the hidden links of nature were familiar as a book. She's made of those rare elements that now and then appear, As if remov'd by accident unto a lesser sphere, Forever reaching up, and on, to life's sublimer things, As if they had been used to track the universe with wings. MAY. Oh the merry May has pleasant hours, And dreamily they glide, As if they floated like the leaves Upon a silver tide. The trees are full of crimson buds, And the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music Like a tune with pleasant words. The verdure of the meadow-land Is creeping to the hills, The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets Are blowing by the rills; The lilac has a load of balm For every wind that stirs, And the larch stands green and beautiful Amid the sombre firs. There's perfume upon every wind-- Music in every tree-- Dews for the moisture-loving flowers-- Sweets for the sucking bee; The sick come forth for the healing South, The young are gathering flowers; And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours. If 'tis not a true philosophy, That the spirit when set free Still lingers about its olden home, In the flower and the tree, It is very strange that our pulses thrill At the tint of a voiceless thing, And our hearts yearn so with tenderness In the beautiful time of Spring. ON SEEING THROUGH A DISTANT WINDOW A BELLE COMPLETING HER TOILET FOR A BALL. 'Tis well--'tis well--that clustering shade Is on thy forehead sweetly laid; And that light curl that slumbers by Makes deeper yet thy depth of eye; And that white rose that decks thy hair Just wins the eye to linger there, Yet makes it not to note the less The beauty of that raven tress. Thy coral necklace?--ear-rings too? Nay--nay--not them--no darker hue Than thy white bosom be to-night On that fair neck the bar of light, Or hide the veins that faintly glow And wander in its living snow.