IF Poesy thou dost love, and seek to guess
The shadowy coverts where her footsteps roam,
Easy they seem and common; yet how rare!
The bee and squirrel know, though none the less
Many must seek in vain, nor any come
Into the very place, save love and care
And reverence accompany him there.

Sometimes within a little, plumy dell
Where the brown sparrow cools his rapid wing,
And sometimes under apple-boughs entwined,
We say: Surely 't is here she loves to dwell;
When, lo! she seems no longer one fair thing
Chiefly to choose, but everywhere can find
Loveliness suited to her varying mind.

Sacred the dusty paths of life have grown
From her pure presence. Fluttering bird,
Whose song is hidden in my heart, I hear
Thy music now in yonder treetop's crown;
Yet often, often, is my spirit stirred
By thy low melodies when no trees are near,
When days are dark and all the world is drear.

Late do we learn perchance that thou hast brought
Thy lovers by strange paths thy voice to know;
Strange is the peace thou bringest to the heart!
How many desert places hast thou taught
To speak, how bid the summer breeze to blow
While winter-time and I have sat apart
Enchanted by thy voice, drowned in thy siren art!