Her bower is not of the vine, But the wild, wild eglantine! Not climbing a moldering arch, But upheld by the fir-green larch. Old ruins she flies: To new valleys she hies; -- Not the hoar, moss-wood, Ivied trees each a rood -- Not in Maramma she dwells, Hollow with hermit cells. 'Tis a new, new isle! An infant's its smile, Soft-rocked by the sea. Its bloom all in bud; No tide at its flood, In that fresh-born sea! Spring! Spring where she dwells, In her sycamore dells, Where Mardi is young and new: Its verdure all eyes with dew. There, there! in the bright, balmy morns, The young deer sprout their horns, Deep-tangled in new-branching groves, Where the Red-Rover Robin roves, -- Stooping his crest, To his molting breast -- Rekindling the flambeau there! Spring! Spring! where she dwells, In her sycamore dells: -- Where, fulfilling their fates, All creatures seek mates -- The thrush, the doe, and the hare! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON THE ENCHANTMENT by THOMAS OTWAY COWLEY: THE GARDEN by ALEXANDER POPE TWELVE SONNETS: 11. FIRST, BATTLE; THEN, WOMAN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) TAKE YOUR CHOICE: OR HERE'S GRANTLAND RICE'S METHOD by BERTON BRALEY A WEST-COUNTRY LOVER by ALICE BROWN |