Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
III. To AdelaideBryan Waller Procter (1787–1874)
C
Thou dove, who tidings bring’st of calmer hours!
Thou rainbow, who dost shine when all the showers
Are past,—or passing! Rose, which hath no thorn,
No spot, no blemish,—pure, and unforlorn!
Untouched, untainted! O, my Flower of flowers!
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers,
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn!
Welcomes,—a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
Round all, seems loosening now his serpent fold,
New hope springs upward, and the bright world seems
Cast back into a youth of endless springs!
Sweet mother, is it so?—or, grow I old,
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?