When midst the summer-roses the warm bees Are swarming in the sun, and thou -- so full Of innocent glee -- dost with thy white hands pull Pink scented apples from the garden trees To fling at me, I catch them, on my knees, Like those who gathered manna; and I cull Some hasty buds to pelt thee -- white as wool Lilies, or yellow jonquils, or heartsease; -- Then I can speak my love, even though thy smiles Gush out among thy blushes, like a flock Of bright birds from rose-bowers; but when thou'rt gone I have no speech, -- no magic that beguiles, The stream of utterance from the hardened rock: -- The dial cannot speak without the sun! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BALLAD OF LONDON (TO H.W. MASSINGHAM) by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE JUGGLING JERRY by GEORGE MEREDITH SHAMEFUL DEATH by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) THE CITY IN THE SEA by EDGAR ALLAN POE THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN by HEW AINSLIE LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR; A LAY OF SHERWOOD by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN ON THE GREAT ENCOURAGEMENT GIVEN BY ENGLISH NOBILITY & GENTRY by WILLIAM BLAKE |