There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky;
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.
Cover me with your everlasting arms,
Ye guardian giants of this solitude!
From the ill-sight of men, and from the rude,
Tumultuous din of yon wild world's alarms!
Oh, knit your mighty limbs around, above,
And close me in for ever! let me dwell
With the wood spirits, in the darkest cell
That ever with your verdant locks ye wove.
The air is full of countless voices, joined
In one eternal hymn; the whispering wind,
The shuddering leaves, the hidden water springs,
The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed wings
Hang in the golden tresses of the lime,
Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme.
Eliza Cook published her first volume of poetry, Lays of a Wild Harp, in 1835.
Her verse appeared in various periodicals, and some compared it with that of
Robert Burns. From 1849–54, she edited the populist weekly Eliza Cook's
Journal, geared towards a middle-class readership.
'Tis midnight! and pale Melancholy stands
Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath
Of yew and cypress; the faint dirge of death
Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands
Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around.
She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet,