Here, where precipitate Spring with one light boundInto hot Summer's lusty arms expires;And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,And softer sighs, that know not what they want;Under a wall, beneath an orange-treeWhose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier onesOf sights in Fiesole right up above,While I was gazing a few paces offAt what they seemed to show me with their nods,Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,A gentle maid came down the garden-stepsAnd gathered the pure treasure in her lap.I heard the branches rustle, and stept forthTo drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scentsAre the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,And nurse and pillow the dull memoryThat would let drop without them her best stores.They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,And 'tis and ever was my wish and wayTo let all flowers live freely, and all die,Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart,Among their kindred in their native place.I never pluck the rose; the violet's headHath shaken with my breath upon its bankAnd not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cupOf the pure lily hath between my handsFelt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.I saw the light that made the glossy leavesMore glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheekWarmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;I saw the foot, that, altho half-erectFrom its grey slipper, could not lift her upTo what she wanted: I held down a branchAnd gather'd her some blossoms, since their hourWas come, and bees had wounded them, and fliesOf harder wing were working their way throAnd scattering them in fragments under foot.So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,For such appear the petals when detacht,Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun:Yet every one her gown received from meWas fairer than the first . . I thought not so,But so she praised them to reward my care.I said: you find the largest.
This indeed,Cried she, is large and sweet.
She held one forth,Whether for me to look at or to takeShe knew not, nor did I; but taking itWould best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.I dared not touch it; for it seemed a partOf her own self; fresh, full, the most matureOf blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touchTo fall, and yet unfallen.
She drew backThe boon she tendered, and then, finding notThe ribbon at her waist to fix it in,Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
