CXLIX.

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where _on_ the heart and _from_ the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture--when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook[pf] No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives[pg] Man knows not--when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves-- What may the fruit be yet?--I know not--Cain was Eve's.