desire.
The apple waves a wealth of plumes,
And laughs in all its fresh attire.

To bask amid the buttercups
The timid speedwell ventures out.
Nature calls every earthling up,
And reassures each tiny sprout.

Yet I must off to other sphere!
Then please your poet, chestnuts tall,
Yea, spread ye forth without a fear
Your firework bloom fantastical!

I know your summer splendour's pride.
I've seen you standing sumptuous
In autumn's tunics purple-dyed,
With golden circlets luminous.

In winter white and crystal-crossed
Your delicate boughs I saw again,--
Like lovely traceries the frost
Limns lightly on the window-pane.

Your every garment I have known,
Ye chestnuts grand that loom aloft,--
Save one to me you've never shown,
Of young green fabric first and soft.

Ah, well, good-bye, for I must go!
Keep, then, your flowers, where'er they be.
There is another flower I know,
That makes the springtime fair for me.

Let May with all her blooms arise,
Let May with all her blooms depart!
That flower sufficeth for mine eyes,
And hath pure honey in its heart.

Let be the season where it waits,
And blue or dull be heaven's dome--
It smiles and charms and captivates,--
The precious violet of my home!

A LAST WISH

How long my soul has loved thee, love!
It is full many a year agone.
Thy spring--what charm of flowers thereof,
My winter--what wild snows thereon!

White lilacs from the land of graves
Blow near my temples. Soon enow
Thou'lt mark the pallid mass that waves
Enshadowing my withered brow.

My westering sun must speedy drop,
And disappear behind the road.
Already on the dim hill-top,
There gleams and waits my last abode.

Then from thy rosy lips let fall
Upon my lips a tardy kiss,
That in my tomb, when comes the call,
My heart may rest, remembering this.

THE DOVE

O tender, beauteous dove,
Calling such plaintive things!
Wilt serve unto my love,
And be my love's own wings?

O, but we 're like, poor heart!
Thy dear one, too, is far.
Remembering, apart,
Each weeps beneath the star.

Let not thy rosy feet
Stay once on any tower,--
I am so fain, my sweet,--
So weary turns the hour!

Forswear the palm's repose
That spreadeth over all,
And gables where the snows
Of other pinions fall.

Now fail me not, nor fear!
He dwelleth near the king.
Give him this letter, dear,
These kisses on thy wing.

Then seek again my breast,
This flaming, throbbing goal,
Then come, my dove, a