BROOM, SPANISH 
Light of my Life. 
“ Here’s the garden she walked across, 
Arm in mj arm, such a short while since; 
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! 
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 
As back with that murmur the wicket swung, 
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, 
To feed and forget it the leaves among. 
“Down this side of the gravel-walk 
She went while her robe’s edge brushed the box: 
And here she paused in her gracious talk 
To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 
Think will I never she passed you by! 
She loves noble roses, I know; 
But yonder, see where the rock-plants lie! 
“This flower she stopped at, finger on lip; 
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim, 
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 
Its soft meandering Spanish name; 
What a name! was it love, or praise ? 
Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake ? 
I must learn Spanish one of these days, 
Only for that slow sweet name’s sake. 
“Roses, if I live and do well, 
I may bring her, one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, 
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase! 
But do not detain me now; for she lingers 
There, like sunshine over the ground, 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 
Searching after the bud she found. 
“Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 
Stay as you are and be loved for ever! 
6 
