Presence

THE wild, sweet water, as it flows,—
The winds, that kiss me as they pass,—
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass, —

The daffodilly, trying to bless
With better light the beauteous air,—
The lily, wearing the white dress
Of sanctuary, to be more fair, —

The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer, —

The moth, his brown sails balancing
Along the stubble crisp and dry,—
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand, —the pewet’s cry, —

The friendly robin’s gracious note, —
The hills, with curious weeds o’errun, —
The althea, with her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun, —

The dandelion, whose golden share
Is set before the rustic’s plough, —
The hum of insects in the air,—
The blooming bush, — the withered bough, —

The coming on of eve,— the springs
Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,—
The frost, that with rough, rugged wings
Blows down the cankered buds, — the white,

Long drifts of winter snow,— the heat
Of August, falling still and wide,—
Broad cornfields,—one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside, —

All things, my darling, all things seem
In some strange way to speak of thee ;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.

My soul to thine is dutiful,
In all its pleasure, all its care ;
O most beloved ! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere !