And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare ?
Lo! as that youth's eyes burn'd at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent,
And round his heart one strangling golden hair.
To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;
A bodily beauty more acceptable
Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell;
To be an essence more environing
Than wine's drain'd juice; a music ravishing
More than the passionate pulse of Philomel ;-
To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell
That is the flower of life :-how strange a thing!
How strange a thing to be what man can know
But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen
Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow,—
Closely withheld as all things most unseen:
The wave-bower'd pearl,—the heart-shape seal of green
That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.
The lost days of my life until to-day,
What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squander'd and still to pay?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
Or such spill'd water as in dreams must cheat
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?
I do not see them here; but after death
God knows I know the faces I shall see,-
Each one a murder'd self, with low last breath :
"I am thyself,—what hast thou done to me?
"And I—and I-thyself" (lo! each one saith)—
"And thou thyself to all eternity."
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.
When I am dead, my Dearest !
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
No shady cypress-tree!
Be the green grass above me,
With showers and dew-drops wet;
And, if thou wilt, remember!
And, if thou wilt, forget!
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain,
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain :
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,—
And haply may forget.
Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers,
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.
Youth and health will be but vain,
Beauty reckon'd of no worth,-
There a very little girth
Can hold round what once the earth
Seem'd too narrow to contain.
I lean'd out of window, I smell'd the white clover;
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate :
Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover :—
Hush, nightingale! hush; O sweet nightingale! wait,
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near!
For my Love he is late.
The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer :
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters glow,
Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me!
You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep!
You glow-worms, shine out and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep!
Ah, my sailor! make haste!
For the time runs to waste
And my love lieth deep.
Too deep for swift telling and yet, my one lover!
I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.
By the sycamore pass'd he and through the white clover,—
Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight.
But I'll love him more, more,
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.
The conference meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snow-birds willing to be mated.
Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes bitten,
Than I, who stepp'd before them all
Who long'd to see me get the mitten.
But no! she blush'd and took my arm :
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started tow'rd the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lover's by-way.
I can't remember what we said,-
'Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seem'd all transform'd and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet shelter'd sweet,
Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff
(O sculptor! if you could but mould it) So lightly touch'd my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her there with me alone,
'Twas love and fear and triumph blended : At last we reach'd the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.
The old folks too were almost home:
Her dimpled hand the latches finger'd, We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we linger’d.
She shook her ringlets from her hood,
And with a 66
Thank you, Ned!" dissembled ; But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.
A cloud pass'd kindly overhead,
The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said
66 Come, now or never do it! do it!"
My lips till then had only known
The kiss of mother and of sister,—
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet rosy darling mouth-I kiss'd her.
Perhaps 'twas boyish love: yet still,
O listless woman! weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh wild thrill
But who can live youth over?
TOUJOURS AMOUR.
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
At what age does love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen!
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair :
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
|