A topaz wine-colored, the wine in a flame; And another that's hued like the pulp of a melon, But sprinkled all o'er as with seed-pearls of Ceylon; And a third! its white petals just clouded with pink! And a fourth, that blue star! and then this, too! I think If one brought me this moment an amethyst cup, From which, through a liquor of amber, looked up, With a glow as of eyes in their elfin-like lustre, Stones culled from all lands in a sunshiny cluster, From the ruby that burns in the sands of Mysore To the beryl of Daunia, with gems from the core Of the mountains of Persia (I talk like a boy In the flush of some new, and yet half-tasted joy); But I think if that cup and its jewels together Were placed by the side of this child of the weather (This one which she touched with her mouth, and let slip From her fingers by chance, as her exquisite lip, With a music befitting the language divine, Gave the roll of the Greek's multitudinous line), I should take--not the gems--but enough! let me shut In the blossom that woke it, my folly, and put Both away in my bosom--there, in a heart-niche, One shall outlive the other--is 't hard to tell which? In the name of all starry and beautiful things, What is it? the cross in the centre, these rings, And the petals that shoot in an intricate maze, From the disk which is lilac--or purple? like rays In a blue Aureole! And so now will she wot, When I sit by her side with my brows in a knot, And praise her so calmly, or chide her perhaps, If her voice falter once in its musical lapse, As I've done, I confess, just to gaze at a flush In the white of her throat, or to watch the quick rush Of the tear she sheds smiling, as, drooping her curls O'er that book I keep shrined like a casket of pearls, She reads on in low tones of such tremulous sweetness, That (in spite of some faults) I am forced, in discreetness, To silence, lest mine, growing hoarse, should betray What I must not reveal--will she guess now, I say, How, for all his grave looks, the stern, passionless Tutor, With more than the love of her youthfulest suitor, Is hiding somewhere in the shroud of his vest, By a heart that is beating wild wings in its nest, This flower, thrown aside in the sport of a minute, And which he holds dear as though folded within it Lay the germ of the bliss that he dreams of! Ah, me! It is hard to love thus, yet to seem and to be A thing for indifference, faint praise, or cold blame, When you long (by the right of deep passion, the claim, On the loved of the loving, at least to be heard) To take the white hand, and with glance, touch, and word, Burn your way to the heart! That her step on the stair? Be still thou fond flutterer!