Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/78

 Too overjoyed For sound of singing! All the valley sings! A clear rivulet is flinging Warbled song to the pure air, Laughing, a young infant fair, Ruffling softly, swiftly passes Green-illumined among grasses, Or red anemone to wander, Where are violet, germander; Child pursued in play, to ramble, After such a sweet preamble, Among myrtle bowers and bramble. Green-pennoned canebrakes in the river All around grey arches quiver; While westering Apollo dulls Delvèd loam, and vivid pulse, A swart red-vestured toiler waters From rills, who are the river's daughters. All the valley sings! And rings, and rings! Ah! Nature never would have power To breath such ecstasy of flower, Vernal songs of happy birds, The young rill's delicious words, No iris hues might bring to birth, No heart were hers for any mirth, If he were turned to common earth!