Puslapio vaizdai
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Fashioned her tenderly,

Giving all weal to her ;Girdle ye slenderly,

Go to her, kneel to her,-

“Saying, 'He sendeth us,

He the most dutiful, Meetly he endeth us,

Maiden most beautiful ! Let us get rest of you,

Sweet, in your breast ;--Die, being prest of you,

Die, being blest.""

A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN.

" Vale, unica!"

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FLOWERS,—that have died upon my Sweet

Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat
Of her young bosom under you,
Now will I show you such a thing
As never, through thick buds of Spring,

Betwixt the daylight and the dew,
The Bird whose being no man knows
The voice that waketh all night through,

Tells to the Rose.

For lo,

-a garden-place I found, Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound,

Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous ;
And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit
Tall knights and silken maids, or sit

With faces bent and amorous ;-
There, in the heart thereof, and crowned
With woodbine and amaracus,

My Love I found.

Alone she walked,-ah, well I wis,
My heart leapt up for joy of this !

Then when I called to her her name,The name, that like a pleasant thing Men's lips remember, murmuring,

At once across the sward she came,Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, And asked ever as she came,

“Where hast thou stayed ?”.

“Where hast thou stayed?”—she asked as though The long years were an hour ago ;

But I spake not, nor answered,
For, looking in her eyes, I saw,
A light not lit of mortal law;

And in her clear cheek's changeless red,
And sweet, unshaken speaking found
That in this place the Hours were dead,

And Time was bound.

“ This is well done,”—she said,"in thee, O Love, that thou art come to me,

To this green garden glorious ; Now truly shall our life be sped In joyance and all goodlihed,

For here all things are fair to us, And none with burden is oppressed, And none is poor or piteous,

For here is Rest.

“No formless Future blurs the sky;
Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye,

By shrouded shapes of Yesterday ;
Betwixt the Coming and the Past
The flawless life hangs fixen fast

In one unwearying To-Day,
That darkens not ; for Sin is shriven,
Death from the doors is thrust away,

And here is Heaven.”

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At “Heaven” she ceased ;-and lifted up
Her fair head like a flower-cup,

With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow ;
Then set I lips to hers, and felt,-
Ah, God,—the hard pain fade and melt,

And past things change to painted show;
The song of quiring birds outbroke ;
The lit leaves laughed,-sky shook, and lo,

I swooned,-and woke.

And now, O Flowers,

-Ye that indeed are dead,Now for all waiting hours,

Well am I comforted;
For of a surety, now, I see,

That, without dim distress
Of tears, or weariness,

My Lady, verily, awaiteth me;
So that until with Her I be,

For my dear Lady's sake

I am right fain to make
Out from my pain a pillow, and to take
Grief for a golden garment unto me;

Knowing that I, at last, shall stand

In that green garden-land, And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand,

Forget the grieving and the misery.

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