We cannot keep delight - we cannot tell One tale of steady bliss, unwarp'd, uncrost, The timid guest anticipates farewell, And will not stay to hear it from his host! I saw a child upon a summer's day, A child upon the margin of a pond, Catch at the boughs that came within his way, From a fair fruit-tree on the bank beyond; The gale that sway'd them from him aye arose, And seldom sank into such kindly calm As gave his hand upon the bunch to close; Which then but left its fragrance on his palm; For the wind woke anew from its repose, And bore the fruit away, but wafted all its balm. |