What hope or fear or joy is thine ? For sure thou art not all alone. Hast thou heard the butterflies With what voice the violet woos 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, 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 MARGARET First printed in 1833; reprinted with sligh changes (see Notes) in 1842. I O SWEET pale Margaret, Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 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, 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, 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, Stoops at all game that wing the skies, My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, II The quick lark's closest-caroll'd strains, III Come down, come home, my Rosalind, And clip your wings, and make you love. From North to South, We'll bind you fast in silken cords, 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. With breezes from our oaken glades, 10 But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades; At the moment of thy birth, The choicest wealth of all the earth, 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, Into dreamful slumber lull'd. III Who may minister to thee? Summer herself should minister 30 To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded IV How full-sail'd verse express, may How may measured words adore And the steady sunset glow To one another, even as tho' Which lives about thee, and a sweep 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, 40 50 6 As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, In thee all passion becomes passionless, 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; His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, VIII 100 110 120 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, '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, And now shake hands across the brink Thy voice, and answer from below. |