DEEP Honeysuckle! in the silent eve
When wild rose cups are clos’d,
and when each bird
Is sleeping by its mate, then all unheard
The dew’s soft kiss thy wakeful lips receive.
’T is then the sighs that
throng them seem to weave
A spell whereby the drowsy night is stirr’d
To fervid meanings, which no fullest word
Of speech or song so sweetly could achieve.
Herald of bliss! whose fragrant trumpet blew
Love’s title to our hearts ere love was known,
’T was well thy flourish told a tale so true,
Well that Love’s dazzling presence was foreshown;
Had his descent on us been as the dew
On thee, our rarer sense he had o’erthrown.
Emily Pfieffer--- To the Herald Honeysuckle