Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
I. “At last, beloved Nature, I have met”Henry Timrod (1828–1867)
A
Thee face to face upon thy breezy hills,
And boldly, where thy inmost bowers were set,
Gazed on thee naked in thy mountain rills:
When first I felt thy breath upon my brow,
Tears of strange ecstasy gushed out like rain,
And with a longing passionate as vain
I strove to clasp thee. But I know not how,
Always before me didst thou seem to glide,
And often from one sunny mountain-side
Upon the next bright peak I saw thee kneel,
And heard thy voice upon the billowy blast,—
But climbing, only reached that shrine to feel
The shadow of a P