A Dream

’t was summer, and the spot a cool retreat— Where curious eyes came not, nor footstep rude Disturbed the lovers’ chosen solitude: Beneath an oak there was a mossy seat, Where we reclined, while birds above us wooed Their mates in songs voluptuously sweet. A limpid brook went murmuring by our feet, And all conspired to urge the tender mood. Methought I touched the streamlet with a flower, When from its bosom sprang a fountain clear, Falling again in the translucent shower Which made more green each blade of grass appear: “This stream ’s thy heart,” I said; “Love’s touch alone Can change it to the fount which maketh green my own.”