The Stirring of Young Desire

It's o for the stirring of young desire,
And I know where I would be
When the kindling touch of the sun sets fire
To the red anemone!

There's a glade where the orchards reach
The rugged hills between,—
Where a warm flush mantles the cheek of the peach,
And the ruddy nectarine.

And there, with a wilding grace,
One goes with a water-jar,
With never a veil to hide her face,
And eyes like the evening-star.

She speeds to an ancient well
Where the green leaves weave a mist,
Where the vows low-whispered none may tell,
Or the lifted lips that are kissed.

And so when the sun's bright fire
The red anemone thrills,
It's O for the stirring of young desire,
And that glade in the Syrian hills!