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For, there! have I drawn or no
Life to that lip?
Do my fingers dip
Made alive, and spread
See, on either side,
Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, “ Take me, for I am thine!”
XXIV. " Now-now"—the door is heard !
Hark, the stairs ! and near
Nearer-and here“ Now !" and, at call the third, She enters without a word.
xxv. On doth she march and on
To the fancied shape;
It is, past escape, Herself, now : the dream is done And the shadow and she are one.
First, I will pray. Do Thou
That ownest the soul,
Yet wilt grant control
Not to squander guilt,
BY THE FIRESIDE.
How well I know what I mean to do
When the long dark autumn evenings come; And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?
With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too !
I shall be found by the fire, suppose,
O'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age ; While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,
And I turn the page, and I turn the page,
“ There he is at it, deep in Greek: “Now then, or never, out we slip
“ To cut from the hazels by the creek “A mainmast for our ship!”
Greek puts already on either side
To a vista opening far and wide,
The out-side frame, like your hazel-trees
But the inside-archway widens fast, And a rarer sort succeeds to these,
And we slope to Italy at last
Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead !
Half-way up in the Alpine gorge !
Or is it a mill, or an iron forge Breaks solitude in vain ?
VIII. A turn, and we stand in the heart of things ;
The woods are round us, heaped and dim; From slab to slab how it slips and springs,
The thread of water single and slim, Through the ravage some torrent brings !
Does it feed the little lake below ?
That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella ; see, in the evening-glow,
How sharp the silver spear-heads charge When Alp meets heaven in snow !
And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it
The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block.
Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,
And thorny balls, each three in one,
For the drop of the woodland fruit 's begun, These early November hours,
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped Elf-needled mat of moss,
By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged
Last evening—nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged,
Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crew
That takes the turn to a range beyond,
Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge.