A NOOK within the forest; overhead The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower, Breaking white cloud, blue sky and sunshine bright, Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, And flecks of gold; a soft cool emerald tint While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts As though to hoard it for the haunting elves Of richest brown; the wild-rose spreads its breast Has dropp'd its dark, long cone. The scorching glare Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt With shrill, quick chirp; and like a flake of fire In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing The insect tribe are here; the ant toils on Gray glistening o'er the bush, the spider lurks, Tells its trapp'd prey, and looping quick its threads, The wood-tick taps its tiny muffled drum Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf, Such nooks as this are common in the woods: Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made. Of His ineffable power and majesty; That in the humble objects, seen too oft To be regarded, is such wondrous grace, The art of man is vain to imitate; That the low flower our careless foot treads down And radiant beauty, and that God hath form'd With deepest forethought and severest care. ROBERT BROWNING. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt, since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May? For me, I touched a thought, I know, Help me to hold it: first it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Where one small orange-cup amassed Five beetles,-blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal,-and last Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast! The champaign with its endless fleece Such life there, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers. How say you? Let us, O my dove, To love or not to love? |