TO one who loves, all things are beautiful— Love colours every thought, and on his wings Doth bear those tender, sweet imaginings That stir the soul to depths most dutiful. The merry clangour of the Bells at Yule, The Cuckoo's trumpet-call, when first it rings On unaccustom'd ears,—and earlier Springs Hallow with light life's darkening vestibule,— Are harbingers of Love, but Love grants more Than all the wealth of Nature can bestow, For he who loves, hath of Love's boundless store A heart, a mind, whose riches overflow, A spirit that immersed in Love's deep lore Perceives in Nature things unseen before. |