The Columbine

Still, still my eye will gaze long-fixed on thee, Till I forget that I am called a man, And at thy side fast-rooted seem to be, And the breeze comes my cheek with thine to fan; Upon this craggy hill our life shall pass, A life of summer days and summer joys, Nodding our honeybells mid pliant grass In which the bee half hid his time employs; And here we'll drink with thirsty pores the rain, And turn dew-sprinkled to the rising sun, And look when in the flaming west again His orb across the heaven its path has run; Here left in darkness on the rocky steep, My weary eyes shall close like folding flowers in sleep.