THE BLESSED DAMOZEL T HE blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, For service neatly worn, Her seemed she scarce had been a day The wonder was not yet quite gone Had counted as ten years. It was the rampart of God's house By God built over the sheer depth So high that looking downward thence It lies in Heaven, across the flood Beneath, the tides of day and night Around her, lovers, newly met And still she bowed herself and stooped Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path; and now she spoke as when "I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said. "Have I not prayed in Heaven?-on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not prayed? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?" * She gazed and listened, and then said, (I saw her smile.) But soon their path The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands And wept. (I heard her tears.) -Dante Gabriel Rossetti. F SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE IRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write, And ever since it grew more clean and white, Oh, list,' quick When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed! That was the chrism of love which love's own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect, purple state! since when indeed, I have been proud and said, "My love, my own." -Elizabeth Barrett Browning. A TO SLEEP FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joy ous health! -William Wordsworth. |