Has not the sky a deeper blue, Have not the trees a greener hue, And bend they not with lordlier grace And nobler shapes above the place Where on one cloudless winter morn My Katie to this life was born? Ah, folly! long hath fled the hour When love to sight gave keener power, And lovers looked for special boons In brighter flowers and larger moons. But wave the foliage as it may, And let the sky be ashen gray, Thus much at least a manly youth May hold--and yet not blush--as truth: If near that blessed spot of earth Which saw the cherished maiden's birth No softer dews than usual rise, And life there keeps its wonted guise, Yet not the less that spot may seem As lovely as a poet's dream; And should a fervid faith incline To make thereof a sainted shrine, Who may deny that round us throng A hundred earthly creeds as wrong, But meaner far, which yet unblamed Stalk by us and are not ashamed? So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll Ends at this portal, while you roll Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray That may recall some vanished day, I--let them jeer and laugh who will-- Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill! So strongly sometimes on the sense These fancies hold their influence, That in long well-known streets I stray Like one who fears to lose his way. The stranger, I, the native, she, Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea; And changing place, and mixing times, I walk in unfamiliar climes! These houses, free to every breeze That blows from warm Floridian seas, Assume a massive English air, And close around an English square; While, if I issue from the town, An English hill looks greenly down, Or round me rolls an English park, And in the Broad I hear the Larke! Thus when, where woodland violets hide, I rove with Katie at my side, It scarce would seem amiss to say: "Katie! my home lies far away, Beyond the pathless waste of brine, In a young land of palm and pine! There, by the tropic heats, the soul Is touched as if with living coal, And glows with such a fire as none Can feel beneath a Northern sun, Unless--my Katie's heart attest!-- 'T is kindled in an English breast! Such is the land in which I live, And, Katie! such the soul I give. Come! ere another morning beam, We'll cleave the sea with wings of steam; And soon, despite of storm or calm, Beneath my native groves of palm, Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, The Southron and his English bride!" Why Silent? Why am I silent from year to year? Needs must I sing on these blue March days? What will you say, when I tell you here, That already, I think, for a little praise, I have paid too dear?