Page:Ambarvalia - Clough (1849).djvu/121

 Yet evermore descending; and my eye Acknowledges its joy—but something more Is thine than in the visual organ rests Or ever through the avenue of sight Made entrance to the heart.—What is it?—What? Who answers? In the thick and bowery copse Sinks, sinks my voice—'tis lost!—the parted hum Of the busy flies and insects, closes again, And the multitudinous silence of the green world Resumes its reign. There is no answer. Yet, O little native cell, though none express Nor even the tear-dimmed inner eye discern The nature of thy charm, yet I assert That thou art fairer than the fairest niche The earth hath shown me since I saw thee last; And he shall mock thy claim, and only he, Who never from a foreign land with joy Came home, and never in his home possessed A single leafy cell with a bright Spring Enlivening it, which he had made his own, Lived in—and loved in!