Not till thine eyes shine, are the sea-waves blue:
Not till the beauty of thy breast was born,
Did white foam put white lily-cups to scorn:
No stars were golden till thy hair's bright hue
Flashed on the planet's morning. Over and through
The woodlands sighed no tender summer breeze
Till thy voice gave its key-note melodies
To every leaf, to every wind that blew.

Never an ash-tree bent with supple charm
Till thou didst teach the boughs and stem their skill
By curve of gracious body or throat or arm:—
Till thou didst sing, the bird-choirs all were mute:
Thy laughter gave its music to the rill;
And thy lips reddened the yet pallid fruit.