I Stood Tip-toe Upon a Little Hill

       Table of Contents

      I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,

       The air was cooling, and so very still.

       That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

       Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

       Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,

       Had not yet lost those starry diadems

       Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

       The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,

       And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept

       On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept

       A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

       Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:

       For not the faintest motion could be seen

       Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.

       There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,

       To peer about upon variety;

       Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,

       And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;

       To picture out the quaint, and curious bending

       Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;

       Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,

       Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.

       I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free

       As though the fanning wings of Mercury

       Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,

       And many pleasures to my vision started;

       So I straightway began to pluck a posey

       Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

      A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;

       Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;

       And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

       And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them

       Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,

       That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

      A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,

       And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

       Upon their summer thrones; there too should be

       The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,

       That with a score of light green brethen shoots

       From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:

       Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters

       Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters

       The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn

       That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

       From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly

       By infant hands, left on the path to die.

      Open afresh your round of starry folds,

       Ye ardent marigolds!

       Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,

       For great Apollo bids

       That in these days your praises should be sung

       On many harps, which he has lately strung;

       And when again your dewiness he kisses,

       Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:

       So haply when I rove in some far vale,

       His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

      Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:

       With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,

       And taper fulgent catching at all things,

       To bind them all about with tiny rings.

      Linger awhile upon some bending planks

       That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,

       And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:

       They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.

       How silent comes the water round that bend;

       Not the minutest whisper does it send

       To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass

       Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.

       Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach

       To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach

       A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;

       Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,

       Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,

       To taste the luxury of sunny beams

       Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle

       With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle

       Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

       If you but scantily hold out the hand,

       That very instant not one will remain;

       But turn your eye, and they are there again.

       The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,

       And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;

       The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,

       And moisture, that the bowery green may live:

       So keeping up an interchange of favours,

       Like good men in the truth of their behaviours

       Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop

       From low hung branches; little space they stop;

       But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;

       Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:

       Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,

       Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.

       Were I in such a place, I sure should pray

       That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,

       Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown

       Fanning away the dandelion’s down;

       Than the light music of her nimble toes

       Patting against the sorrel as she goes.

       How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught

       Playing in all her innocence of thought.

       O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,

       Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;

       O let me for one moment touch her wrist;

       Let me one moment to her breathing list;

       And as she leaves me may she often turn

       Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne.