I sought the first spring-buds for her, the fairest and the best, And she wore them for their loveliness upon her spotless breast, The blood-root and the violet, the frail anemone, She wore them, and alas! I deemed it was for love of me! As flowers in a darksome place stretch forward to the light, So to the memory of her I turn by day and night; wan, So is it with my darkened heart, now that her light is gone. The thousand little things that love doth treasure up aye, for And brood upon with moistened eyes when she that's loved's away, The word, the look, the smile, the blush, the ribbon that she wore, Each day they grow more dear to me, and pain me more and more. My face I cover with my hands, and bitterly I weep, That the quick-gathering sands of life should choke a love so deep, And that the stream, so pure and bright, must turn it from its track, Or to the heart-springs, whence it rose, roll its full waters back! As calm as doth the lily float close by the lakelet's brim, So calm and spotless, down time's stream, her peaceful days did swim, And I had longed, and dreamed, and prayed, that closely by her side, Down to a haven still and sure, my happy life might glide. But now, alas! those golden days of youth and hope are o'er, And I must dream those dreams of joy, those guiltless dreams no more; Yet there is something in my heart that whispers cease lessly, "Would God that I might see that face once more before I die!" IANTHE. I. THERE is a light within her eyes, Like gleams of wandering fire-flies; The holy shapes of things she loves; That they seem to melt away That such strange light betokened death Instead of fire-fly gleams, I see Wild corpse-lights gliding waveringly. II. With wayward thoughts her eyes are bright, Like shiftings of the northern-light, Hither, thither, swiftly glance they, In a mazy twining dance they, Like ripply lights the sunshine weaves, I feel a sudden sense of pain, As if, while yet her eyes were gleaming, Bright fancies from her face were streaming, As swift and suddenly as they. III. A wild, inspirèd earnestness That speaks not what it wills, Beams marvellously from her eyes. Her wild lips curve and quiver, And my rapt soul, on the strong tide upcaught, Unwittingly is borne away, Lulled by a dreamful music ever, Far-through the solemn twilight-gray E Which the trailing vine embowers, And where the purple-clustered grapes are seen And with maddening rapture shook Now gliding where the water-plants have slept Of earth-forgetting dreams, I float to a delicious land Or To songs of courtly chivalry, weep, unmindful if my tears be seen, For the meek, suffering love of poor Undine. IV. Her thoughts are never memories, Fresh and beautiful as dew That in a dell at noontide lies, Or, at the close of summer day, As golden birds across the sun, Her careless hair that scatters down A waterfall leaf-tinged with brown V. When first I saw her, not of earth, Yet that mysterious, moony hue She has a sister's sympathy With all the wanderers of the sky, And of their love perchance this grace For both, methinks, can scarce be true, She seems one born in Heaven For, while unto her soul are given Of holiest love and truth, Of kindliness and ruth; So, though some shade of awe doth stir Our souls for one so far above us, We feel secure that she will love us, And cannot keep from loving her. She is a poem, which to me In speech and look is written bright, Dear, glorious creature! |