Did he drop on knee before her "Son Amour, son Cœur, sa Reine”— In his high-flown way adore her, Urgent, eloquent implore her, Plead his pleasure and his pain? Did she turn with sight swift-dimming, And the quivering lip we know, With the full, slow eyelid brimming, With the languorous pupil swimming, Like the love of Mirabeau? 249 Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling, For his eager lips to press ; In a flash all fate fulfilling Did he catch her, trembling, thrillingCrushing life to one caress? Did they sit in that dim sweetness F 3 Till at last she,-sunlight smiting Red on wrist and cheek and hair,— Sought the page where love first lighting, Fixed their fate, and, in this writing, Fixed the record of it there. Did they marry midst the smother, Did she wander like that other Round and round his prison wall ;— Wander wailing, as the plover Waileth, wheeleth, desolate, Heedless of the hawk above her, While as yet the rushes cover, Waning fast, her wounded mate ;— Wander, till his love's eyes met hers, Did he burst his prison fetters, Did he write sweet, yearning letters "A Lucile-en Angleterre"? Letters where the reader, reading, Letters where Love's iteration Like a song-bird from a grave. Where, through Passion's wild repeating, Abelard and Cato greeting, Rousseau ramping over all. Yet your critic's right-you waive it, Written there in tears of blood. Did they hunt him to his hiding, Left to lie, with thin lips resting Till some "tiger-monkey," finding Fancies only! Nought the covers, Yet I love it for its lovers, For the dream that round it hovers A GARDEN SONG (TO W. E. HENLEY) HERE, in this sequestered close, Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock Here, without a pang, one sees All the seasons run their race Here, in alleys cool and green, Sounds of toil and turmoil are. |