Reft of her, my dreams are all And the funeral goes by. Master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made, So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach,— Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each? Ah! might I, by thy good grace Send it from that place to her! Nay, not I; but oh! do thou, Feel its presence bow like wind. Where in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening, Water's voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun. Soft as Spring Master, bid it sing and moan. Song shall tell how glad and strong Is the night she soothes alway; Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue Of the brazen hours of day: Sounds as of the springtide they, Moan and song, While the chill months long for May. Not the prayers which with all leave Strength that shall not grieve or err. Wheresoe'er my dreams befall, Both at night-watch (let it say,) There her glance doth fall and stay. Suddenly her face is there : So do mounting vapours wreathe The black firwood sets its teeth. Secret waters there, and breathe. Master, bid my shadow bend Whispering thus till birth of light, Lest new shapes that sleep may send Scatter all its work to flight ;Master, master of the night, Bid it spend Speech, song, prayer, and end aright. Yet, ah me! if at her head Shall it strive, or fade unseen? How should love's own messenger Strive with love and be love's foe? Master, nay! If thus, in her, Sleep a wedded heart should show,Silent let mine image go, Its old share Of thy sunken air to know. Like a vapour wan and mute, Like a flame, so let it pass ; One low sigh across her lute, One dull breath against her glass; Cold as when death's foot shall pass. Then, too, let all hopes of mine, All vain hopes by night and day, Slowly at thy summoning sign Rise up pallid and obey. Dreams, if this is thus, were they :Be they thine, And to dreamland pine away. Yet from old time, life, not death, Lo! through thee, with mingling breath, O Love bring me so, for strife, Bring me so not death but life! Yea, to Love himself is pour'd This frail song of hope and fear. With kind Sleep to bring her near, In her name implor'd, O hear! LOVE'S LOVERS. Some ladies love the jewels in Love's zone And some that listen to his Lute's soft tone Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be they Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday And thank his wings to-day that he is flown. My lady only loves the heart of Love: Therefore Love's heart, my lady, hath for thee His bower of unimagined flower and tree: There kneels he now, and all-anhungered of Thine eyes grey-lit in shadowing hair above, Seals with thy mouth his immortality. LOVE-LILY. Between the hands, between the brows, A spirit is born whose birth endows My blood with fire to burn through me; Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart, A spirit is born who lifts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me; And shows, while whispering lutes confer. Drows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Oh! bid me with your joy rejoice Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought PARTED LOVE. What shall be said of this embattled day By all thy foes beleaguered,-now when sight Of these thy vanquished hours what shalt thou say,- Stand still, fond fettered wretch! while Memory's art And thy heart rends thee, and thy body endures. |