Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveler between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.
HE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.
TO A GREEK GIRL1
ITH breath of thyme and bees that hum,
Across the years you seem to come,
Across the years with nymph-like head,
And wind-blown brows unfilleted;
1 Reprinted through special arrangement with Mr. Alban Dobson and with the Oxford University Press.
A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoë!
Where'er you pass,-where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow; Where'er you go,-where'er you pass, There comes a gladness on the grass; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,— Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; You wake in me a Pan not dead,— Not wholly dead!-Autonoë!
How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-god; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoë!
In vain,-in vain! The years divide: Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;— A vision, like Alcestis, brought
From under-lands of Memory,
A dream of Form in days of Thought,- A dream,--a dream, Autonoë!
WEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; that household lawn; Those trees-a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away;
For never saw I mien or face
In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread; Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs. From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea: and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be,
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