And I, of Him loved reverently, as Cause, Nor were we shy, For souls in heaven that be May talk of heaven without hypocrisy. The low, gray Church, in its sequester'd dell, Dead Millicent indeed had been most sweet, To call such graces in a Maiden mine! A boy's proud passion free affection blunts; Was Millicent's before I, manlier, knew That maidens shine As diamonds do, Which, though most clear, Are not to be seen through; And, if she put her virgin self aside And sate her, crownless, at my conquering feet, Amelia had more luck than Millicent, Secure she smiled and warm from all mischance And glow'd content With my some might have thought too much superior age, Which seem'd the gage Of steady kindness all on her intent. Thus nought forbade us to be fully blent. While, therefore, now Her pensive footstep stirr'd The darnell'd garden of unheedful death, She ask'd what Millicent was like, and heard Yet fill'd with only woman's love, and how But all my praise Amelia thought too slight for Millicent, And on my lovelier-freighted arm she leant, And the tea-rose I gave, To deck her breast, she dropp'd upon the grave. 'Nay, I will wear it for her sake,' she said: For dear to maidens are their rivals dead. And so, She seated on the black yew's tortured root, I on the carpet of sere shreds below, And nigh the little mound where lay that other, I lifted to my lips a sandall'd foot, And kiss'd it three times thrice without dispute. Her lamb-like hands about my neck she wreathed, Now would I keep my promise to her Mother; My best Amelia, fresh-born from a kiss, Moth-like, full-blown in birthdew shuddering sweet, At inmost heart well pleased with one another, Through the plough'd field does each clod sharply show, And softly fills With shade the dimples of our homeward hills, With little said, We left the 'wilder'd garden of the dead, And gain'd the gorse-lit shoulder of the down That keeps the north-wind from the nestling town, And caught, once more, the vision of the wave, A many-sailéd ship Pursued alone her distant purpose grave; And, by steep steps rock-hewn, to the dim street I led her sacred feet; And so the Daughter gave, Soft, moth-like, sweet, Showy as damask-rose and shy as musk, Back to her Mother, anxious in the dusk. And now 'Good-night!' Me shall the phantom months no more affright. Who keeps himself the key. C. Patmore CLXII O that 'twere possible To find the arms of my true love When I was wont to meet her A shadow flits before me, Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be. It leads me forth at evening, It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me, When all my spirit reels At the shouts, the leagues of lights, Half the night I waste in sighs, 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, Do I hear her sing as of old, My own dove with the tender eye? But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, There is some one dying or dead, And a sullen thunder is roll'd; For a tumult shakes the city, Get thee hence, nor come again, Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, Thro' the hubbub of the market It crosses here, it crosses there, Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame. Alas for her that met me, That heard me softly call, Came glimmering thro' the laurels In the garden by the turrets Would the happy spirit descend, But the broad light glares and beats, And I loathe the squares and streets, And the faces that one meets, Hearts with no love for me: Always I long to creep Into some still cavern deep, There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee. A. Lord Tennyson |