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Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd
But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld
The death-white curtain drawn;
Felt a horror over me creep,
Prickle my skin and catch my breath,
Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep, Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep of death.
So dark a mind within me dwells,
And I make myself such evil cheer,
That if I be dear to some one else,
Then some one else may have much to fear;
But if I be dear to some one else,
Then I should be to myself more dear.
Shall I not take care of all that I think,
If I be dear to some one else.
THIS lump of earth has left his estate
le may stay for a year who has gone for a week:
O this is the day!
beautiful creature, what am I
That I dare to look her way;
Think I may hold dominion sweet,
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast,
And dream of her beauty with tender dread,
What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord,
Had given her word to a thing so low?
Can break her word were it even for me?
Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart,
Go not, happy day,
Over blowing seas,
Rosy is the South,
Roses are her cheeks,
And a rose her mouth.
I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend.
And never yet so warmly ran my blood
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end,
None like her, none.
Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk
The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.
There is none like her, none.
Nor will be when our summers have deceased.
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon
In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,
Sighing for Lebanon,
Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased,
And looking to the South, and fed
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate,
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she
Here will I lie, while these long branches sway,
Who am no more so all forlorn,
As when it seem'd far better to be born
To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand,
Than nursed at ease and brought to understand
A sad astrology, the boundless plan
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies,
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand
But now shine on, and what care I,
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl
Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give More life to Love than is or ever was
In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live.
Not die; but live a life of truest breath,
And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death? Make answer, Maud my bliss,
Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss, Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? "The dusky strand of Death inwoven here With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear."
Is that enchanted moan only the swell
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay?
My own heart's heart and ownest own, farewell.
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell