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Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Low thunder and light in the magic Two lovers whispering by an orchard nightwall;
Neither moon nor star. Two lives bound fast in one with golden We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, ease ;
Call to each other and whoop and cry Two graves grass-green beside a gray All night, merrily, merrily; church-tower,
They would pelt me with starry spangles Wash'd with still rains and daisy blos
and shells, somed ;
Laughing and clapping their hands beTwo children in one hamlet born and
All night, merrily, merrily : So runs the round of life from hour to But I would throw to them back in mine hour.
Turkis and agate and almondine :
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
Oh! what a happy life were mine
Under the hollow-hung ocean green!
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;
We would live merrily, merrily.
Who would be
play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea
flower ; And holding them back by their flowing
I would be a mermaid fair ;
hair ; And still as I comb'd I would sing and
say, · Who is it loves me? who loves not me?' I would comb my hair till my ringlets
Low adown, low adown,
Low adown and around,
Would lean out from the hollow sphere
of the sea, All looking down for the love of me.
Over the throne
in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of
MYSTERY of mysteries,
Faintly smiling Adeline,
Scarce of earth nor all divine, Nor unhappy, nor at rest,
But beyond expression fair
With thy floating flaxen hair ; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes
Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ?
But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low
flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the
rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and
seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson
shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and
shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would
leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from
the dells; For I would not be kiss'd by all who
would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the
Whence that aery bloom of thine,
Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline,
And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still,
As a Naiad in a well,
Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old
Of a maiden past away, Ere the placid lips be cold ? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine,
Spiritual Adeline ?
What hope or fear or joy is thine ?
Do beating hearts of salient springs
Hast thou heard the butterflies
Or in stillest evenings
Or when little airs arise,
To the mosses underneath?
Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise ?
A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day.
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, O sweet pale Margaret,
Keeps real sorrow far away. O rare pale Margaret,
You move not in such solitudes, What lit your eyes with tearful power,
You are not less divine,
Of pensive thought and aspect pale, | Your hair is darker, and your eyes
Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ?
And less aërially blue, From the westward-winding flood,
But ever trembling thro' the dew From the evening-lighted wood,
Of dainty-woeful sympathies.
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood
Between the rainbow and the sun.
O sweet pale Margaret,
Like sunshine on a dancing rill, And your words are seeming-bitter, Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of swift delight.
Come down, come down, and hear me
The sun is just about to set,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Where all day long you sit between
Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn,
Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.
Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
II. The quick lark's closest-caroll'd strains, The shadow rushing up the sea, The lightning flash atween the rains, The sunlight driving down the lea, The leaping stream, the very wind, That will not stay, upon his way, To stoop the cowslip to the plains, Is not so clear and bold and free As you, my falcon Rosalind. You care not for another's pains, Because you are the soul of joy, Bright metal all without alloy. Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, And flashes off a thousand ways, Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, Keen with triumph, watching still To pierce me thro' with pointed light ; But oftentimes they flash and glitter
Thy dark eyes opend not,
For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward
brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood,
Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd
With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious
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 steady sunset glow, And the hearts of purple hills,
That stays upon thee? For in thee And shadow'd coves on a sunny Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; shore,
Like two streams of incense free
From one censer in one shrine, earth,
Thought and motion mingle,
Mingle ever. Motions flow
To one another, even as tho'
To an unheard melody,
Which lives about thee, and a sweep Thro' half-open lattices
Of richest pauses, evermore Coming in the scented breeze,
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; Fed thee, a child, lying alone,
Who may express thee, Eleänore?
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, I see thy beauty gradually unfold, With the hum of swarming bees
Daily and hourly, more and more.
Slowly, as from a cloud of gold,
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. Who may minister to thee?
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er
The languors of thy love-deep eyes
So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, Youngest Autumn, in a bower
To stand apart, and to adore, Grape - thicken'd from the light, and Gazing on thee for evermore, blinded
Serene, imperial Eleänore !
Sleepeth over all the heaven, Gazing, I seem to see
asleep, Crimsons over an inland mere,
Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep
In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite,
But am as nothing in its light :
How may measured words adore Ev'n while we gaze on it,
The full-flowing harmony Should slowly round his orb, and slowly Of thy swan-like stateliness,
grow Eleanore ?
To a full face, there like a sun remain The luxuriant symmetry
Fix'd—then as slowly fade again, Of thy floating gracefulness,
And draw itself to what it was Eleanore?
So full, so deep, so slow,
Thought seems to come and go
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore.