And does she still perceive, her curtain drawn, <br />white fields, where maiden Dawn <br />is anguish'd with the untold approach of joy? <br />or in the wooing forenoon softly pass <br />where of our little friends <br />that knew us, girl and boy, <br />the delicate feather-pinks, each dainty greeting bends <br />before her step, amid the pale sweet grass? <br />or warmer flush <br />our poppies with her blush <br />as the long day of love grows bold for the red kiss <br />and dreams of bliss <br />dizzy the brain and awe the youthful blood? <br />Surely her longing gaze hath call'd them forth <br />the bashful blue-eyed flower-births of the North, <br />forget-me-nots and violets of the wood, <br />those maids that slept beneath the snow, and every gracious thing <br />that glads the spring! <br />— Ah sweet! but dream me in thy landscape there <br />as I have pictured thee <br />and I shall rest the long day at thy knee <br />beneath thy hair: <br />and Thou and I unconscious of surprise <br />but innocently quiet and gravely glad <br />and just a little sad <br />with longing long repress'd, <br />shall fill with grace each other's welcome eyes <br />till the shy evening rise <br />and the streaming lilac-bloom enchant the drowsed air, <br />hushing it soft and warm round pillows press'd <br />by happy lovers' rest <br />lost in that timeless hour when breast is joined to breast.<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-does-she-still-perceive/
