O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast. III And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame And that glory and that shame alike, the gold IV Now, the single little turret that remains By the caper overrooted, by the gourd While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames V And I know-while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. VI But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades, Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then, All the men ! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech VII In one year they sent a million fighters forth And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. TIME'S REVENGES. I'VE a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write ; He does himself though,-and if some vein Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand And make my broth and wash my face And I can neither think nor read And I've a Lady-there he wakes So I might prove myself that sea Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint And you shall see how the devil spends A fire God gave for other ends ! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love's best crown, And feasted with love's perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, Of shadow round her mouth; and she And make her one whom they invite There may be heaven; there must be hell; Meantime, there is our earth here-well! WARING. I I WHAT 's become of Waring II Who'd have guessed it from his lip Or started landward?-little caring For us, it seems, who supped together (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home thro' the merry weather, The snowiest in all December. I left his arm that night myself For what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet |