WAS it not enough to dream the day to death Grandly? and finely feed on faint perfumes? Between the heavy lilacs draw thick breath, While the noon hummed from glowing citron-glooms? Or walk with Morning in these dewy bowers, 'Mid sheaved lilies, and the moth-loved lips Of purple asters, bearded flat sunflowers, And milk-white crumpled pinks with blood i' the tips? But I must also, gazing upon thee, Pine with delicious pain, and subtle smart, Till I felt heavy immortality, Laden with looks of thine, weigh on my heart! |