Ah, well-but sing the foolish song It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, A trifle, sweet! which true love spells- For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth And now those vivid hours are gone, Love that hath us in the net, Many a chance the years beget. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no! Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part Became an outward breathing type, 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: But that God bless thee, dear-who wrought With blessings beyond hope or thought, Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; FATIMA. O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might! Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Last night I wasted hateful hours I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth: Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. |