AGAIN thou comest like a star of brightness, —
As pure and tender, as serene and fair;
I bear thy tones of love, or joyous lightness!
I breathe thy presence like a balmy air!

They say that genius' sacred fount is gushing
Within thy soul of tenderness and truth;
That glory's sunlight even now is flushing
The still and dewy morning of thy youth.

Thou little dreamest that perchance above thee
Fame's envied chaplet trembles in the air,
While crowned with roses in the hearts that love thee,
While homage sweet is offered to thee there.

Thy soul is loveliest ere fashion round it
Her robe of cold and glittering thraldom flings, —
Ere worldly art, with gilded chains, hath bound it,
Ere brushed the gold-dust from its fairy wings.