SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night. And the Spring arose on the garden fair, And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast But none ever trembled and panted with bliss, In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, Then the pied wind-flowers, and the tulip tall, And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, It was felt like an odor within the sense; And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed, And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tube-rose, And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was pranked, under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells, And flow'rets which, drooping as day drooped too, And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odor its neighbor shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear, Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, The light winds, which from unsustaining wings. The beams which dart from many a star The pluméd insects swift and free, The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie The quivering vapors of dim noontide, Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, Each and all like ministering angels were And when evening descended from heaven above, And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sound, Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness, (Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, And snatches of its Elysian chant Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant,) The Sensitive Plant was the earliest II. THERE was a Power in this sweet place, |