In Misty Blue
In misty blue the lark is heard Above the silent homes of men; The bright--eyed thrush, the little wren, The yellow--billed sweet--voiced blackbird Mid sallow blossoms blond as curd Or silver oak boughs, carolling With happy throat from tree to tree, Sing into light this morn of spring That sang my dear love home to me. Be starry, buds of clustered white, Around the dark waves of her hair! The young fresh glory you prepare Is like my ever--fresh delight When she comes shining on my sight With meeting eyes, with such a cheek As colours fair like flushing tips Of shoots, and music ere she speak Lies in the wonder of her lips. Airs of the morning, breathe about Keen faint scents of the wild wood--side From thickets where primroses hide Mid the brown leaves of winter's rout. Chestnut and willow, beacon out For joy of her, from far and nigh, Your English green on English hills: Above her head, song--quivering sky, And at her feet, the daffodils. Because she breathed, the world was more, And breath a finer soul to use, And life held lovelier hopes to choose: But O to--day my heart brims o'er, Earth glows as from a kindled core, Like shadows of diviner things Are hill and cloud and flower and tree-- A splendour that is hers and spring's,-- The day my love came home to me.
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