Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/207

 Along the eastern hills, one streak Of the Sun's majesty: Laden with dewy gems, it gleams A precious freight to me, For each pure drop thereon me seems A type of thee.

And when abroad in summer morn, I hear the blythe bold bee Winding aloft his tiny horn, (An errant knight perdy,) That winged hunter of rare sweets O'er many a far country, To me a lay of love repeats, Its subject—thee.

And when, in midnight hour, I note The stars so pensively, In their mild beauty, onward float Through heaven's own silent sea: My heart is in their voyaging To realms where spirits be, But its mate, in such wandering, Is ever thee!