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In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite,
And draw itself to what it was before;
So full, so deep, so slow,
Thought seems to come and go
Roof'd the world with doubt and fear,
In a silent meditation,
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,
And the self-same influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
And so would languish evermore,
Or, in a shadowy saloon,
I watch thy grace; and in its place
While I muse upon thy face;
Thro' my veins to all my frame,
From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth ; and then, as in a swoos,
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I drink the cup of a costly death,
I die with my delight, before
I hear what I would hear from thee;
Yet tell my name again to me,
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
I SEE the wealthy miller yet,
His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget
The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curld, Seem'd half-within and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world ?
In yonder chair I see him sit,
Three fingers round the old silver cupI see his gray eyes twinkle yet
At his own jest-gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul
Su full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,
His memory scarce can make nie, sad.
Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss :
My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the self-same day.
Have I not found a happy earth ?
I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth
I'd almost live my life again.
And once again to woo thee mine-
Across the walnuts and the wine
To be the long and listless boy
Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high
Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you
Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro'
By some wild skylark's matin song.