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What hope or fear or joy is thine ?
Who talketh with thee, Adeline?

For sure thou art not all alone.
Do beating hearts of salient springs
Keep measure with thine own?

Hast thou heard the butterflies
What they say betwixt their wings?
Or in stillest evenings

With what voice the violet woos
To his heart the silver dews?
Or when little airs arise,
How the merry bluebell rings
To the mosses underneath?
Hast thou look'd upon the breath
Of the lilies at sunrise?
Wherefore that faint smile of thine,
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline?

IV

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some spirit of a crimson rose

In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind.

What aileth thee? whom waitest thou

With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thine, Thou faint smiler, Adeline?

V

Lovest thou the doleful wind

When thou gazest at the skies?

Doth the low-tongued Orient

Wander from the side of the morn,
Dripping with Sabæan spice

On thy pillow, lowly bent

With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-drooping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays,

And ye talk together still,

In the language wherewith Spring
Letters cowslips on the hill?
Hence that look and smile of thine,
Spiritual Adeline.

MARGARET

First printed in 1833; reprinted with sligh changes (see Notes) in 1842.

I

O SWEET pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo flower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have

won

A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek,

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 thro' a fleecy night.

II

You love, remaining peacefully,

To hear the murmur of the strife,

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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,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leavy beech.
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Where all day long you sit between
Joy and woe, and whisper each.
Or only look across the lawn,

Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.

ROSALIND

Printed in 1833, but suppressed until 1884. See Notes.

I

MY Rosalind, my Rosalind,

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,
Whose free delight, from any height of
rapid flight,

Stoops at all game that wing the skies,
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,
Careless both of wind and weather,
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,
Up or down the streaming wind?

II

The quick lark's closest-caroll'd strains,
The shadow rushing up the sea,
The lightning flash atween the rains,
The sunlight driving down the lea,
The leaping stream, the very wind,
That will not stay, upon his way,
To stoop the cowslip to the plains,
Is not so clear and bold and free
As you, my falcon Rosalind.
You care not for another's pains,
Because you are the soul of joy,
Bright metal all without alloy.
Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,
And flashes off a thousand ways,
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays.
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright,
Keen with triump!, watching still
To pierce me thro' with pointed light;
But oftentimes they flash and glitter
Like sunshine on a dancing rill,
And your words are seeming-bitter,
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter
From excess of swift delight.

III

Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind.
Too long you keep the upper skies;
Too long you roam and wheel at will;
But we must hood your random eyes,
That care not whom they kill,
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue
Is so sparkling-fresh to view,
Some red heath-flower in the dew,
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind
And keep you fast, my Rosalind,
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,

And clip your wings, and make you love.
When we have lured you from above,
And that delight of frolic flight, by day or
night,

From North to South,

We'll bind you fast in silken cords,
And kiss away the bitter words
From off your rosy mouth.

ELEÄNORE

Reprinted in 1842 from the 1833 volume. See Notes.

I

THY dark eyes open'd not,

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air,

For there is nothing here

Which, from the outward to the inward brought,

Moulded thy baby thought.

Far off from human neighborhood

Thou wert born, on a summer morn,

A mile beneath the cedar-wood.
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd

With breezes from our oaken glades, 10 But thou wert nursed in some delicious land

Of lavish lights, and floating shades;
And flattering thy childish thought
The oriental fairy brought,

At the moment of thy birth,
From old well-heads of haunted rills,
And the hearts of purple hills,
And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore,

The choicest wealth of all the earth,
Jewel or shell, or starry ore,
To deck thy cradle, Eleänore.

II

Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone,

20

With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd

A glorious child, dreaming alone,

In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down,
With the hum of swarming bees

Into dreamful slumber lull'd.

III

Who may minister to thee?

Summer herself should minister

30

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded
On golden salvers, or it may be,
Youngest Autumn, in a bower
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded
With many a deep-hued bell-like flower
Of fragrant trailers, when the air
Sleepeth over all the heaven,
And the crag that fronts the even,
All along the shadowing shore,
Crimsons over an inland mere,
Eleanore !

IV

How full-sail'd verse express,

may

How may measured words adore
The full-flowing harmony
Of thy swan-like stateliness,
Eleanore ?
The luxuriant symmetry
Of thy floating gracefulness,
Eleanore?
Every turn and glance of thine,
Every lineament divine,
Eleänore,

And the steady sunset glow
That stays upon thee? For in thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing single;
Like two streams of incense free
From one censer in one shrine,
Thought and motion mingle,
Mingle ever. Motions flow

To one another, even as tho'
They were modulated so
To an unheard melody,

Which lives about thee, and a sweep
Of richest pauses, evermore
Drawn from each other mellow-deep;
Who may express thee, Eleänore ?

V

I stand before thee, Eleänore;

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er

The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies,
To stand apart, and to adore,
Gazing on thee for evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleänore !

40

50

6

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As thunder-clouds that, hung on high,
Roof'd the world with doubt and fear,
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere,
Grow golden all about the sky;

In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation,

Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation. As waves that up a quiet cove

Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will, Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land

With motions of the outer sea;
And the self-same influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.

His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love,
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,
And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleanore.

VIII

100

110

120

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Kate saith the world is void of might.' Kate saith the men are gilded flies.'

Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. I would I were an armed knight, Far-famed for well-won enterprise, And wearing on my swarthy brows The garland of new-wreathed emprise; For in a moment I would pierce The blackest files of clanging fight, And strongly strike to left and right,

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'MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS'

First printed in 1833, with the heading, 'To -.' The first two stanzas were not reprinted until 1865, when they appeared in the volume of 'Selections' in their present form. The next three stanzas were added later. See Notes.

My life is full of weary days,

But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways;

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof,
Nor golden largess of thy praise.

And now shake hands across the brink
Of that deep grave to which I go,
Shake hands once more; I cannot sink
So far far down, but I shall know

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Thy voice, and answer from below.

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