Page:Songs, Legends, and Ballads.djvu/228

2l6 He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers.
 * But left them scentless: ah! their woful dole,

Like sad reproach of their Creator's powers,—
 * To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul.

He gave thee trees of odorous precious wood;
 * But, midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit.

He looked, but said not that His work was good,
 * When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute.

He blessed thy flowers with honey: every bell
 * Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist;

But no bee-lover ever notes the swell
 * Of hearts, like lips, a-huugering to be kist.

O strange land, thou art virgin! thou art more
 * Than fig-tree barren! Would that I could paint

For others' eyes the glory of the shore
 * Where last I saw thee; but the senses faint