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* And yet it was a graceful gift
I felt a pang within
His axe to slay my kin.
The finest on the tree.
O kiss him once for me!
6 O kiss him twice and thrice for me,
That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea
Shall grow so fair as this.”
Step deeper yet in herb and fern,
Look further through the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern
The front of Sumner-place.
This fruit of thine by Love is blest,
That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of Love may rest
Some happy future day.
I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice,
The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetize
The baby-oak within.
But thou, while kingdoms overset,
Or lapse from hand to hand,
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet
Thine acorn in the land.
May never saw dismember thee,
Nor wielded axe disjoint; That art the fairest spoken tree
From here to Lizard-point.
O rock upon thy towery top
All throats that gurgle sweet! All starry culmination drop
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet !
And while he sinks or swells
The sound of minster bells.
The fat earth feed thy branchy root,
That under deeply strikes ! The northern morning o'er thee shoot,
High up, in silver spikes !
Nor ever lightning char thy grain,
But, rolling as in sleep,
That makes thee broad and deep!
And hear me swear a solemn oath,
That only by thy side
And gain her for my bride.
And when my marriage-morn may fall,
She, Dryad-like, shall wear
In wreath about her hair.
And I will work in prose and rhyme,
And praise thee more in both
Or that Thessalian growth
In which the swarthy ringdove sat,
And mystic sentence spoke;
Thy famous brother-oak,
Wherein the younger Charles abode
Till all the paths were dim,
And hummed a surly hymn.
LOVE AND DUTY.
Or love that never found his earthly close,
Shall Error in the round of time
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,
Will some one say, then why not ill for good ?
-So let me think 'tis well for thee and me-
soul! For Love himself took part against himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of LoveO this world's curse-beloved but hated-came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, “ Who is this ? behold thy bride,"
If the sense is hard
Could love part thus ? was it not well to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, And all good things from evil
, brought the night
The trance gave way