And oft I heard the tender dove

In firry woodlands making moan; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy played Before I dreamed that pleasant dream —

Still hither thither idly swayed

Like those long mosses in the stream.

Or from the bridge I leaned to hear
The milldam rushing down with noise,
And see the minnows everywhere

In crystal eddies glance and poise,
The tall flag-flowers, where they sprung
Below the range of stepping stones,

And those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones.

But, Alice, what an hour was that,
When, after roving in the woods,
('T was April then,) I came and sat
Below the chestnuts, when their buds
Were glistening to the breezy blue ;

And on the slope, an absent fool,
I cast me down, nor thought of you,
But angled in the higher pool.

A love-song I had somewhere read,

An echo from a measured strain,

Beat time to nothing in the head
From some odd corner of the brain.

It haunted me, the morning long,

With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song,

That went and came a thousand times.

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood
I watched the little circles die ;
They past into the level flood,

And there a vision caught my eye;
The reflex of a beauteous form,
A glowing arm, a gleaming neck,
As when a sunbeam wavers warm
Within the dark and dimpled beck.

For you remember, you

had set,

That morning, on the casement's edge A long green box of mignonette,

And you were leaning from the ledge:

And when I raised my eyes, above

They met with two so full and bright— Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love,

That these have never lost their light.

I loved, and love dispelled the fear
That I should die an early death:
For love possessed the atmosphere,

And filled the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was altered, and began

To move about the house with joy,
And with the certain step of man.

I loved the brimming wave that swam Through quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam,

The pool beneath it never still,

The meal-sacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, very air about the door

The

Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ramblings on the wold,
When April nights began to blow,
And April's crescent glimmered cold,
I saw the village lights below;
I knew

your taper far away,

And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, and lay

Upon the freshly-flowered slope.

The deep brook groaned beneath the mill; And "by that lamp," I thought," she sits!" The white chalk-quarry from the hill

Gleamed to the flying moon by fits.

"O that I were beside her now!
O will she answer if I call?
O would she give me vow for vow,
Sweet Alice, if I told her all?"

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin;
· And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within ;

Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind;

At last you rose and moved the light,

And the long shadow of the chair

Flitted across into the night,

And all the casement darkened there.

But when at last I dared to speak,

The lanes, you know, were white with May; Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek

Flushed like the coming of the day;

And so it was-half-sly, half-shy,

You would, and would not, little one!

Although I pleaded tenderly,

And you and I were all alone.

And slowly was my mother brought
To yield consent to my desire:
She wished me happy, but she thought

I might have looked a little higher;

And I was young

too young to wed: "Yet must I love her for your sake;

Go fetch

your Alice here," she said : Her eyelid quivered as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my

bride :

But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please.

I loved

you better for your fears,

I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kissed away before they fell.

I watched the little flutterings,

The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things,

And at the last she spoke of me; And turning looked upon your face,

As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace

Approaching, pressed you heart to heart.