To an Indian Maid

Must thy blushes like the cherry blossom fall
Without a gatherer to glean the fallen bloom
Is there no basket in which thy flushes may rest?
Laid in the heart and unconsumed by the ever-yearning mouth of time.
Were I the happy gatherer of thy field.
The happy master of this universe of Delight
No precious pearl as rain would fall
No whisper as the magic sound of the mountain breeze
No smile like the unending Dawn
Shall lie upon the earth of unremembrance.