II

The quick lark's closest-carolled strains,

The shadow rushing up the sea,

The lightning flash atween the rains,

The sunlight driving down the lea,

The leaping stream, the very wind,

That will not stay, upon his way,

To stoop the cowslip to the plains,

Is not so clear and bold and free

As you, my falcon Rosalind.

You care not for another's pains,

Because you are the soul of joy,

Bright metal all without alloy,

Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,

And flashes off a thousand ways,

Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.

Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,

Keen with triumph, watching still

To pierce me through with pointed light;

But oftentimes they flash and glitter

Like sunshine on a dancing rill,

And your words are seeming-bitter,

Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter

From excess of swift delight.