Noontide

Upon the grass,
Soft! let her pass!
Bend back, ye purple flow'rs!
With fawn-like grace,
Hope in her face,
She nears those sylvan bow'rs, —

Where sunbeams glide
This fair noontide,
And tint each bending bough,
And many a fold
Of purest gold,
Enwreathes her marble brow.

Yes! he is there!
The amber air
Grows soft with love-notes, while
Such perfect peace
It ne'er should cease,
Illumes her eyes and smile.