The brook that mirrored clear the sky-- Full well I know the spot; The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye, And said "Forget-me-not." And from the brook I turned away, But heard it many an after day. The king-cup on its slender stalk, Within the pasture dell, Would picture there a pleasant walk With one I loved so well. It said "How sweet at eventide 'T would be, with true love at thy side." And on the pasture's woody knoll I saw the wild bluebell, On Sundays where I used to stroll With her I loved so well: She culled the flowers the year before; These bowed, and told the story o'er. And every flower that had a name Would tell me who was fair; But those without, as strangers, came And blossomed silent there: I stood to hear, but all alone: They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown. But seasons now have nought to say, The flowers no news to bring: Alone I live from day to day-- Flowers deck the bier of Spring; And birds upon the bush or tree All sing a different tale to me. THE SKYLARK Although I'm in prison Thy song is uprisen, Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud, In the blueness of morn, Over fields of green corn, With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud. When the day is serenest, When the corn is the greenest, Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light, And sings in the sun, Like a vision begun Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight. The daisies they whiten Plains the sunbeams now brighten, And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie, From whence thou'rt now springing, And the air is now ringing, To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high. The cornflower is blooming, The cowslip is coming, And many new buds on the silken grass lie: On the earth's shelt'ring breast Thou hast left thy brown nest, And art towering above it, a speck in the sky. Thou'rt the herald of sunshine, And the soft dewy moonshine Gilds sweetly the sleep of thy brown speckled breast: Thou'rt the bard of the Spring, On thy brown russet wing, And of each grassy close thou'rt the poet and guest. There's the violet confiding, In the mossy wood riding, And primrose beneath the old thorn in the glen, And the daisies that bed In the sheltered homestead-- Old friends with old faces, I see them again. And thou, feathered poet, I see thee, and know it-- Thou'rt one of the minstrels that cheered me last Spring: With Nature thou'rt blest, And green grass round thy nest Will keep thee still happy to mount up and sing. POETS LOVE NATURE--A FRAGMENT