LXVIII. Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. LXIX. No memory labors longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er LXX. Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compassed, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like. LXXI. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears; LXXII. Because all words, though culled with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart MARGARET. O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? have won From all things outward you Between the rainbow and the sun.. The very smile before you speak, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving through a fleecy night. You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lulled echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking through his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touched with a somewhat darker hue, But ever trembling through the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, |