Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/26



TO taste Wild wine of the mountain-spring, fresh, living, strong, Running and rushing like a triumph-song Round hearts new-braced:

To smell A growing cowslip, some glad morn of Spring, And breathe the breath of every fragrant thing From every bell:

To touch A sliding wavelet, supple, smooth and thin,— Just ere the pois’d and perfect crests begin To bend too much: