r with the blue
Of limpid skies,
Thy lineage hath kindred ties
In her, whose eyes
The heav'n's own qualities imbue.

III.

There is no flower of wood or lea,
No Juneday flower, as fair as she:
Rose,--odorous with beauty of
Life's first and best,--
Behold thy sister here confessed!
Whose maiden breast
Is fragrant with the dreams of love.

SHE IS SO MUCH

She is so much to me, to me,
And, oh! I love her so,
I look into my soul and see
How comfort keeps me company
In hopes she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.

So dear she is to me, so dear,
And, oh! I love her so,
I listen in my heart and hear
The voice of gladness singing near
In thoughts she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.

So much she is to me, so much,
And, oh! I love her so,
In heart and soul I feel the touch
Of angel callers, that are such
Dreams as she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.

HER EYES

In her dark eyes dreams poetize;
The soul sits lost in love:
There is no thing in all the skies,
To gladden all the world I prize,
Like the deep love in her dark eyes,
Or one sweet dream thereof.

In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,
Her soul's soft moods I see:
Of hope and faith, that make life wise;
And charity, whose food is sighs--
Not truer than her own true eyes
Is truth's divinity.

In her dark eyes the knowledge lies
Of an immortal sod,
Her soul once trod in angel-guise,
Nor can forget its heavenly ties,
Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyes
Once gazed the eyes of God.

MESSENGERS

The wind, that gives the rose a kiss
With murmured music of the south,
Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this,--
The wind, that gives the rose a kiss--
The perfume of her mouth.

The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,
And echoes in a grottoed place,
Hath held a fairer thing than these,--
The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,--
The image of her face.

O happy wind! O happy brook!
So dear before, so free of cares!
How dearer since her kiss and look,--
O happy wind! O happy brook!--
Have blessed you unawares!

AT TWENTY-ONE

The rosy hills of her high breasts,
Whereon, like misty morning, rests
The breathing lace; her auburn hair,
Wherein, a star point sparkling there,