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From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs,
In violets blue as your eyes,
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
Knowing your promise to me;
They sighed for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither! the dances are done;
Queen lily and rose in one;
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my life, my fate!
And the white rose weeps, “She is late”;
She is coming, my own, my sweet!
Were it ever so airy a tread,
Were it earth in an earthly bed;
Had I lain for a century dead;
HERE'S a woman like a dewdrop, she's so purer than the
purest; And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's
the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of
lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild
Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted
marble: Then her voice's music call it the well's bubbling, the
bird's warble! And this woman says, “My days were sunless and my nights
were moonless, Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's out
break tuneless, If you loved me not!” And I who(ah, for words of flame!)
adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
TAY but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
Because you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
If earth holds aught—speak truth-above her?
TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA
WONDER do you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?
For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it left
The yellowing fennel, mun to seed
Some old tomb’s ruin; yonder weed
Where one small orange cup amassed
Five beetles—blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal: and last,
Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast!
The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of airRome's ghost since her decease.
Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way, While heaven looks from its towers!
How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control To love or not to love?
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie?
What the core O'the wound, since wound must be?
I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my heart
At your soul's springs,—your part my part
No, I yearn upward, touch you close,
I kiss your cheek,
And love it more than tongue can speak-
Must I go
Already how am I so far
Out of that minute?
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again!
Infinite passion, and the pain
I remember how you smiled
You think you're writing upon stone!”
Shall ever wash away, what men
Walter Savage Landor