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And rose, and, with a silent grace
Approaching, pressed you heart to heart.
Ah, well—but sing the foolish song
I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along,
A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers--that I may seem,
As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream,
While those full chestnuts whisper by.
It is the miller's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That trembles at her ear:
And I would be the girdler
About her dainty, dainty waist,
In sorrow and in rest:
And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
With her laughter or her sighs,
A trifle, sweet! which true love spells
True love interprets right alone.
For all the spirit is his own.
You must blame Love. His early rage
Had force to make me rhyme in youth,
And makes me talk too much in age.
And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart : So sing that other song I made,
Half-angered with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade
I found the blue Forget-me-not.
Love that hath us in the net,
Ah, no! no!
Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life,
Look through my very soul with thine ! Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes forever dwell! They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.
Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart
Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again,
And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more,
With farther lookings on.
The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss,
The comfort, I have found in thee:
Two spirits to one equal mind-
With blessings which no words can find.
Arise, and let us wander forth
To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north,
Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass,
Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.
O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Last night I wasted hateful hours
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers :
I crushed them on my breast, my mouth:
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
O Love, O fire! once he drew
Before he mounts the hill, I know
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My whole soul waiting silently,
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
up and takes the morning; but in front
Hither came at noon Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff
“ O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,