YOU scarce can mark her flying feet
Or bear her eyelids’ flash a space;
Her passing by is like the sweet
Blown odor of some tropic place;
She has a voice, a smile sincere,
The blitheness of the nascent year,
April’s growth and grace;
All youth, all force, all fire and stress
In her impassioned gentleness,
Half exhortation, half caress.
A thing of peace and of delight,—
A fountain sparkling in the sun,
Reflecting heavenly shapes by night,—
Her moods thro’ ordered beauty run.
Light be the storm that she must know,
And branches greener after snow
For hope to build upon;
Late may the tear of memory start,
And Love, who is her counterpart,
Be tender with that lily-heart!