Bees murmured in the milk-white bloom,
As babes will sigh for deep content
When their sweet hearts for peace make room,
As given, not lent.
And we saw on: we said no word,
And one was lost in musings rare,
One buoyant as the waft that stirred
Her shining hair.
His eyes were bent upon the sand,
Unfathomed deeps within them lay.
A slender rod was in his hand--
A hazel spray.
Her eyes were resting on his face,
As shyly glad, by stealth to glean
Impressions of his manly grace
And guarded mien;
The mouth with steady sweetness set,
And eyes conveying unaware
The distant hint of some regret
That harbored there.
She gazed, and in the tender flush
That made her face like roses blown,
And in the radiance and the hush,
Her thought was shown.
It was a happy thing to sit
So near, nor mar his reverie;
She looked not for a part in it,
So meek was she.
But it was solace for her eyes,
And for her heart, that yearned to him,
To watch apart in loving wise
Those musings dim.
Lost--lost, and gone! The Pelham woods
Were full of doves that cooed at ease;
The orchis filled her purple hoods
For dainty bees.
He heard not; all the delicate air
Was fresh with falling water-spray:
It mattered not--he was not there,
But far away.
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