MOODS OF LOVE.

My love for thee is like a winged seed

Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower,

And deftly guided by some breezy power

To fall and rest, where I should never heed,

In deepest caves of memory. There, indeed,

With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar,—

Ev'n making cold neglect and darkness dower

Its roots with life,— swiftly it‘ gan to breed,

Till now wide-branching tendrils it outspreads

Like circling arms, to prison its own prison,

Fretting the walls with blooms by myriads,

And blazoning in my brain full summer-season:

Thy face, whose dearness presence had not taught.

In absence multiplies, and fills all thought.