What can I do? Shall I read books, Or write more verse--or turn fond looks Upon enamels blue, sea-green, And white--on insects rare as seen Upon my Dresden china ware? Or shall I touch the globe, and care To make the heavens turn upon Its axis? No, not one--not one Of all these things care I to do; All wearies me--I think of you. In truth with you my sunshine fled, And gayety with your light tread-- Glad noise that set me dreaming still. 'Twas my delight to watch your will, And mark you point with finger-tips To help your spelling out a word; To see the pearls between your lips When I your joyous laughter heard; Your honest brows that looked so true, And said "Oh, yes!" to each intent; Your great bright eyes, that loved to view With admiration innocent My fine old Sèvres; the eager thought That every kind of knowledge sought; The elbow push with "Come and see!" Oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be, And fays the wind blows often here; The gnomes that squat the ceiling near, In corners made by old books dim; The long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim That seem at home 'mong vases rare, And chat to them with friendly air-- Oh, how the joyous demon throng Must all have laughed with laughter long To see you on my rough drafts fall, My bald hexameters, and all The mournful, miserable band, And drag them with relentless hand From out their box, with true delight To set them each and all a-light, And then with clapping hands to lean Above the stove and watch the scene, How to the mass deformed there came A soul that showed itself in flame! Bright tricksy children--oh, I pray Come back and sing and dance away, And chatter too--sometimes you may, A giddy group, a big book seize-- Or sometimes, if it so you please, With nimble step you'll run to me And push the arm that holds the pen, Till on my finished verse will be A stroke that's like a steeple when Seen suddenly upon a plain. My soul longs for your breath again To warm it. Oh, return--come here With laugh and babble--and no fear When with your shadow you obscure The book I read, for I am sure, Oh, madcaps terrible and dear, That you were right and I was wrong. But who has ne'er with scolding tongue Blamed out of season. Pardon me! You must forgive--for sad are we.