She came into the April air, <br />And passed across the silvery lawn; <br />Blithe was her voice, her brow was bare, <br />And rippled from her radiant hair <br />The glow and glory of the dawn. <br />Her footfall scared nor doe nor fawn, <br />No timid songster ceased to sing; <br />But, wheresoe'er she strayed or stood, <br />Her maiden coming seemed to bring <br />A wider wonder to the wood, <br />And more of magic to the Spring. <br /> <br />When June is throned, and round her blows <br />The rambling briar and lily tall, <br />I saw her watch the buds unclose, <br />Herself, herself the loveliest rose, <br />And stateliest lily of them all. <br />The blackbirds' fluting, cuckoo's call, <br />She scarcely heard, for trembled near, <br />And thrilled her wheresoe'er she strayed, <br />That note more deep, that voice more dear, <br />That lures to love the listening maid, <br />When half is fondness, half is fear. <br /> <br />Among the rows of ripened sheaves, <br />And orchard harvests golden-red, <br />The tapestry that Autumn weaves <br />From fallen fruit and fading leaves, <br />Pensive she paced with matron tread. <br />Low was her voice, but all she said <br />Seemed strangely true, and deeply wise; <br />And mute her offspring gathered round, <br />To gaze into her tranquil eyes, <br />And listen to the sacred sound <br />Of mellow words and meek replies. <br /> <br />Now by the wintry hearth she sits, <br />Grey guardian of the household fire, <br />Foretells the Future, as she knits, <br />Then back her loving memory flits <br />To bygone days and dead desire. <br />Anon her fingers seem to tire, <br />And weary sense to droop its wing; <br />But, though her gaze hath feebler grown, <br />Nor knows she what the children sing, <br />She sees the Lamb before the Throne, <br />And hears the Angels canticling.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beatrice-2/
