We'll just suppose a blooming vine
With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
And form a bower, between us.
And we'll suppose a happy boy,
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
The growing floral treasure.
And now the petal, twisted tight,
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
As if the rainbow dyed it.
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner's bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
Impatient close beside it.
Another rising sun has thrown
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
Of purple, high and airy.
And many a fair and shining flower
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
Where'er the vine was clinging.
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
And round it birds were singing.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73