Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/283



me, fair maid, tell me truly, How should infant Love be fed; If with dewdrops, shed so newly On the bright green clover blade; Or, with roses plucked in July, And with honey liquored? O, no! O, no! Let roses blow, And dew-stars to green blade cling: Other fare, More light and rare, Befits that gentlest Nursling.

Feed him with the sigh that rushes 'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks With the eloquence that flushes All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks; Feed him with a world of blushes, And the glance that shuns, yet seeks: For 'tis with food, So light and good,