Ah, well but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers-that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: For, hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. A trifle, sweet! which true love spells True love interprets right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Love that hath us in the net, Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look through my very soul with thine! Yet tears they shed: they had their part Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, With farther lookings on. The kiss, But that God bless thee, dear who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth Το yon old mill across the wolds; Is dry and dewless. Let us go. O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might! Throbbing through all thy heat and light, II. Last night I wasted hateful hours I crushed them on my breast, my mouth: Of that long desert to the south. |