« ПретходнаНастави »
By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged
Last evening-nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged,
Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crew
That takes the turn to a range beyond,
Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge.
Blackish-grey and mostly wet;
See here again, how the lichens fret
Poor little place, where its one priest comes
On a festa-day, if he comes at all,
Gathered within that precinct small
To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,
Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed, Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,
Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts.
It has some pretension too, this front,
With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise
Set over the porch, Art's early wont :
'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise, But has borne the weather's brunt
For a pent-house properly projects
Dating-good thought of our architect's 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know.
And all day long a bird sings there,
And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; The place is silent and aware ;
It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, But that is its own affair.
XXI My perfect wife, my Leonor,
Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too, Whom else could I dare look backward for,
With whom beside should I dare pursue
Youth, flowery all the way, there stops-
Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops, One inch from our life's safe hem !
No longer watch you as you sit
And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely, my heart knows how
When, if I think but deep enough,
You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; And you, too, find without rebuff
Response your soul seeks many a time, Piercing its fine flesh-stuff.
My own, confirm me! If I tread
This path back, is it not in pride To think how little I dreamed it led
To an age so blest that, by its side, Youth seems the waste instead ?
My own, see where the years conduct !
At first, ’t was something our two souls Should mix as mists do; each is sucked
In each now : on, the new stream rolls,
The great Word which makes all things new, When earth breaks up and heaven expands,
How will the change strike me and you In the house not made with hands ?
Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine,
Your heart anticipate my heart, You must be just before, in fine,
See and make me see, for your part,
When we two drew together first
Just for the obvious human bliss,
To satisfy life's daily thirst
Let us lean and love it over again,
Break the rosary in a pearly rain,
All day long, save when a brown pair
Strained to a bell : ’gainst noon-day glare You count the streaks and rings.
But at afternoon or almost eve
'T is better ; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe
It must get rid of what it knows,
Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,
While my heart, convulsed to really speak, Lay choking in its pride.
And pity and praise the chapel sweet,
And wish for our souls a like retreat, And wonder at the moss,
Look through the window's grated square : Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,
The cross is down and the altar bare,
See the little porch and rustic door,
Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, Take the path again- but wait !
Oh moment one and infinite !
The water slips o'er stock and stone; The West is tender, hardly bright :
How grey at once is the evening grownOne star, its chrysolite !
We two stood there with never a third,
But each by each, as each knew well : The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,
The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred.
And the little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,
Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, And life be a proof of this !
Had she willed it, still had stood the screen
So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her :