« AnteriorContinuar »
Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die,
Perchance were death indeed ! -Constantia, turn ! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which
burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep ; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is
yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap.
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget !
A breathless awe, like the swift change
Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the inchantment of thy strain, And on my shoulders wings are woven, To follow its sublime career,
Beyond the mighty moons that wane
Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere,
Her voice is hovering o'er my soul — it lingers
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings, The blood and life within those snowy fingers
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick —
The blood is listening in my frame, And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
Fall on my overflowing eyes;
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,
I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee,
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Flows on, and fills all things with melody. —
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne,
Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.
Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Which when the starry waters sleep,
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight.
THE rose that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant air of noon,
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
Such is my heart — roses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom ;
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom ;
I MET a traveller from an antique land
1. THAT time is dead for ever, child, Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!
We look on the past
And stare aghast At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast, Of hopes which thou and I beguiled
To death on life's dark river.
The stream we gazed on then, rolled by; Its waves are unreturning;
But we yet stand
In a lone land, Like tombs to mark the memory Of hopes and fears, which fade and fee In the light of life's dim morning.