Margaret Fuller

“ A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring, Since the full noon o'er hill and valley glowed, I've filled the vase which our Olympian king Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed; That at the moment when thou should'st descend, A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend. Hast thou forgotten earth, forgotten me, Thy fellow bondsman in a royal cause, Who, from the sadness of infinity, Only with thee can know that peaceful pause In which we catch the flowing strain of love, Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove? ”

“ Only from such could be obtained a draught For him who in his early home from Jove's own cup has quaffed. To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long, Till heavy grows the burthen of a song; O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day, My feet are weary of their frequent way, The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say. If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around, My head with a sad slumber will be bound, And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. ”

“ O, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove, Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love, Receive the service in which he delights, And bear him often to the serene heights, Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee, Shall be allowed the highest minstry, And Rapture live with bright Fidelity. ”