The Question
I DREAMED that as I wandered by the wayBare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,And gentle odours led my steps astray,Mixed with a sound of waters murmuringAlong a shelving bank of turf, which layUnder a copse, and hardly dared to flingIts green arms round the bosom of the stream,But kissed it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wetsIts mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cow-bind and the moonlight-coloured May,And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wineWas the bright dew yet drained not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentineWith its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river’s trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,And starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues, which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprisoned children of the HoursWithin my hand,—and then, elate and gay,I hastened to the spot whence I had comeThat I might there present it—O! to Whom?