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WHO doubteth, when the morning star doth light Her lamp of beauty, that the day is coming? Or, where prime odours track the breezes’ flight, That rare flowers in the vicinage are blooming? Or, where the wild bees all about are humming, That honey’s stored in some near cedar’s height? Or, that the sea is heaving into sight When more and more long surgy rolls come booming? And surely, as the observer understands What each of these foretokens in its kind, Thy manhood’s mental amplitude expands Before me in its omens, when I find Something of promise fashioned by thy hands, Some blossom breathing of thy forming mind. |