Show traced with flame. Move with me to that hour, Which was the hinge on which the door of Hope, Once turning, open'd far into the outward, And never closed again. I well remember, It was a glorious morning, such a one As dawns but once a season. Mercury On such a morning would have flung himself From cloud to cloud, and swum with balanced wings To some tall mountain. On that day the year First felt his youth and strength, and from his spring Moved smiling toward his summer. On that day, Love working shook his wings (that charged the winds With spiced May-sweets from bound to bound) and blew Fresh fire into the sun, and from within Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent his soul Into the songs of birds, and touch'd far-off His mountain-altars, his high hills, with flame Milder and purer. Up the rocks we wound; The great pine shook with lovely sounds of joy, That came on the sea-wind. As mountain brooks Our blood ran free: the sunshine seem'd to brood More warmly on the heart than on the brow. We often paused, and looking back, we saw The clefts and openings in the hills all fill'd With the blue valley and the glistening brooks, And with the low dark groves--a land of Love; Where Love was worshipp'd upon every height, Where Love was worshipp'd under every tree-- A land of promise, flowing with the milk And honey of delicious memories Down to the sea, as far as eye could ken, From verge to verge it was a holy land, Still growing holier as you near'd the bay, For where the temple stood. When we had reach'd The grassy platform on some hill, I stoop'd, I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her brows And mine wove chaplets of the self-same flower, Which she took smiling, and with my work there Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or twice she told me (For I remember all things), to let grow The flowers that run poison in their veins. She said, 'The evil flourish in the world'; Then playfully she gave herself the lie: 'Nothing in nature is unbeautiful, So, brother, pluck and spare not.' So I wove Even the dull-blooded poppy, 'whose red flower Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sunrise, Like to the wild youth of an evil king, Is without sweetness, but who crowns himself Above the secret poisons of his heart In his old age'--a graceful thought of hers Graven on my fancy! As I said, with these She crown'd her forehead. O how like a nymph, A stately mountain-nymph, she look'd! how native Unto the hills she trod on! What an angel! How clothed with beams! My eyes, fix'd upon hers, Almost forgot even to move again. My spirit leap'd as with those thrills of bliss That shoot across the soul in prayer, and show us That we are surely heard. Methought a light Burst from the garland I had woven, and stood A solid glory on her bright black hair: A light, methought, broke from her dark, dark eyes,