One day, when wandering on the shore
⁠That once was ruled by Marinell,
I found within a clefted rock
⁠A strangely twisted, curious shell
With spiral whorls of pearly white,
And hollows tinged with roseate light.

This shell possessed a wondrous power,
⁠For, placed against the listener's ear.
He heard, though gentle, faint, and low,
⁠The tones of those he held most dear;
Though parted far by land or wave,
The faithful shell an echo gave.

"Oh, happy gift to man," said I;
⁠"More precious than the painter's art;
How oft shalt thou, in distant climes,
⁠Console the ever-faithful heart,
Bring back the cherished voice again,
And take from absence half its pain."

"Vain are thy thoughts," a nymph replied;
⁠"For those who own it will lament
That never, through its echoes faint.
⁠Can tidings from the loved be sent:
The distant sound is only caught,
But never word or message brought.

"'Twill only waken yearnings vain;
⁠'Twill only pierce the heart anew,
And bring to mind with tenfold pain
⁠The anguish of the last adieu.
When all is lost beyond recall,
'Tis better far a veil should fall."

She ceased. I turned, and threw the shell
⁠Beneath the tossing, foaming tide;
Too well can memory waken grief,
⁠That man should seek for aught beside.
Love needs it not; for love can last
When all the things of time are past.

Within the sense of touch and sight,
They lie before me as I write.
⁠These subtle-scented flowers;
Their little tufts of golden green,
With flecks of ruddy brown between,
⁠All wet with summer showers.

I saw them but an hour ago.
With sister bunches all a-row.
⁠And rosebuds white and red;
And dark carnations, spicy sweet,
Borne westward thro' the busy street.
⁠Upon a flower-girl's head.

The sudden summer shower drew forth
From my one simple pennyworth.
⁠The half-evanished bloom;
The fading tufts grew green again,
And breathed, in answer to the rain,
⁠A beautiful perfume.

How well their silent beauties grace
The dulness of this dingy place,
⁠My lonely working-room!
I drop my pen this summer day.
And fancy bears me far away,
⁠Where other posies bloom.

To garden borders thickly set
With pansy, lily, mignonette,
⁠And all sweet flowers that blow;
Where we two in the sunshine sit,
While butterflies around us flit,
⁠And brown bees come and go.

The lark sings high, in heaven above,
Its thrilling strain of happy love.
⁠While we sit still below;
Each heart can feel the other beat.
But neither breaks the silence sweet,
⁠With whispered "Yes" or "No."

Ah, me! since then what months of pain
Ah, me! what months of sun and rain
⁠Must run, ere I can see
Another of those sunshine hours,
And hear among the summer flowers
⁠How one remembers me.

But love is mine, how strong and true,
And hope springs green, dear flowers, as you.
⁠I murmur not at fate;
While for the greatest good of all,
For years, though shine or shadow fall,
⁠I am content to wait.

Two sapphires are thy two blue eyes
⁠So lovely and so sweet;
Thrice happy is the happy man
⁠Whom lovingly they greet.

Thy heart, it is a diamond
⁠That noble lightning throws;
Thrice happy is the happy man
⁠For whom it throbs and glows.

And rubies are thy crimson lips,
⁠None lovelier might one reach;
Thrice happy is the happy man
⁠Who gets of them love-speech.

If I but knew the happy man.
⁠And met that favoured one
Alone, alone in the green woods.
⁠His happiness were done!