Higginson and Bigelow, comps. American Sonnets. 1891.
JulyLouise Brooks
S
The same you told the grasses on the lea,
That, bending, twisting, tossed with frolic glee,
Each tells to each through the long joyous day.
Ye braided waters of the brook alway,
That green detaining grasses vainly woo,
What alchemy now turns you gold, now blue?
What do your gentle murmurings betray?
Ye white and vap’rous bubbles of the air,
Circling the brow of day, a pearléd chain,
Your mystery I long to learn,—may dare
To weave therewith a rhyme. The sacred pain
Has touched my heart, leaving it soft and bare,
Quivering with thoughts it cannot give again.