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She woke the babble of the stream
Fell, and without the steady glare
Shrank one sick willow sere and small.
The river-bed was dusty white;
And all the furnace of the light
Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whispered, with a stifled moan

More inward than at night or morn, "Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten, and die forlorn.”


And, rising, from her bosom drew
Old letters, breathing of her worth,
For "Love," they said, "must needs be true
To what is loveliest upon earth.”
An image seemed to pass the door,

To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore."

"O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"


But sometimes in the falling day
An image seemed to pass the door,
To look into her eyes and say,

"But thou shalt be alone no more." And flaming downward over all

From heat to heat the day decreased,
And slowly rounded to the east
The one black shadow from the wall.

"The day to night," she made her moan, "The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."


At eve a dry cicala sung,

There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And leaned upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright

Large Hesper glittered on her tears,
And deepening through the silent spheres,
Heaven over Heaven rose the night.

And weeping then she made her moan,
"The night comes on that knows not morn
When I shall cease to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."


THY dark eyes opened not,

Nor first revealed themselves to English air,
For there is nothing here,

Which, from the outward to the inward brought,
Moulded thy baby thought.
Far off from human neighborhood,

Thou wert born, on a summer morn,
A mile beneath the cedar-wood.
Thy bounteous forehead was not fanned
With breezes from our oaken glades,
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land
Of lavish lights, and floating shades :
And flattering thy childish thought
The oriental fairy brought,

At the moment of thy birth,
From old well-heads of haunted rills,
And the hearts of purple hills,

And shadowed coves on a sunny shore,
The choicest wealth of all the earth,

Jewel or shell, or starry ore,
To deck thy cradle, Eleänore.

Or the yellow-banded bees,
Through half-open lattices
Coming in the scented breeze,

Fed thee, a child, lying alone,

With whitest honey in fairy gardens culled A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees

Into dreamful slumber lulled.

Who may minister to thee?
Summer herself should minister

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded
On golden salvers, or it may be,
Youngest Autumn, in a bower
Grape-thickened from the light, and blinded
With many a deep-hued bell-like flower
Of fragrant trailers, when the air
Sleepeth over all the heaven,

And the crag that fronts the Even,
All along the shadowing shore,
Crimsons over an inland mere,

How may full-sailed verse express,
How may measured words adore
The full-flowing harmony
Of thy swan-like stateliness,

The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore?

Every turn and glance of thine,
Every lineament divine,


And the steady sunset glow,

That stays upon thee? For in thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing single;
Like two streams of incense free

From one censer, in one shrine,
Thought and motion mingle,
Mingle ever. Motions flow
To one another, even as though
They were modulated so

To an unheard melody,
Which lives about thee, and a sweep
Of richest pauses, evermore
Drawn from each other mellow-deep;
Who may express thee, Eleänore?

I stand before thee, Eleänore;

I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
Daily and hourly, more and more.
I muse, as in a trance, the while

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er

The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore!

Sometimes, with most intensity
Gazing, I seem to see

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep,
Slowly awakened, grow so full and deep
In thy large eyes, that, overpowered quite,
I cannot veil, or droop my sight,
But am as nothing in its light:

As though a star, in inmost heaven set,
Even while we gaze on it,

Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow
To a full face, there like a sun remain

Fixed-then as slowly fade again,

And draw itself to what it was before;
So full, so deep, so slow,
Thought seems to come and go
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore.

As thunderclouds that, hung on high,

Roofed the world with doubt and fear,
Floating through an evening atmosphere,
Grow golden all about the sky;
In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touched by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation,
Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation:
As waves that up a quiet cove
Rolling slide, and lying still

Shadow forth the banks at will;
Or sometimes they swell and move,
Pressing up against the land,
With motions of the outer sea:

And the selfsame influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.
His bowstring slackened, languid Love,
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,
And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleänore.

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,
While the amorous, odorous wind

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ;
Or, in a shadowy saloon,

On silken cushions half reclined;

I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,
While I muse upon thy face;



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