MAD 

When the morn drinks the dew that is hid in the cup

Of each blossom that sways, and the daisies look up

And nod to the sun and the coxcomb and rose

Nod good morning, and big purple glories unclose,

And away—it seems somewhere away out of town—

A wild bird is singing; its song filters down

And fills up my soul, and the air all around

Is as sweet as if honey were melted in sound

And the universe filled with it up to the rim

Of the horizon yonder, empurpled and dim;

Then a memory born of the blossoms and dew

And the morning, comes to me and whispers of you.

I touch the tall daisies a-sparkle with dew,

And they lean to and from me and whisper; and you

Seem a part of each one, and their leaves are as fair

As your brow; and the witcherie born of your hair

Enfolds me and holds me where tall roses nod

When the sun gilds the slopes where the tall goldenrod

Is swaying and lilting, a-dip to each breeze,

And the grass is grown wild and is up to one’s knees,

And the pink rose’s petals the soft breezes tweak

Are almost as velvety pink as our cheek;

And red roses are red as are rubies in dew—

But not red as the smiling red lips, dear, of you.

If ‘tis madness to think in the springtime and dew,

And the brown, sun-parched noontime of summer, of

you;

To compare with your laugh every song of a bird,

With your voice every whisper when branches are stirred

By the South’s perfumed breezes, then, dear, I am glad

For this madness of loving—am glad I am mad!

For the birds’ songs are sweeter, the torrent’s far call

Is sweeter and clearer and dearer, and all

Of the world, dear, is changed, like a gem washed in

dew,

And heaven is nearer, dear, since I love you;

For this madness of loving I’m thankful again,

God bless you and keep you, and keep me insane!

             Lilts O Love Table Of Contents