LVII.
REMINISCENCES.
1
Thou art not here, although I talk to thee,
Save in thy mystic presence in my heart:
Thou art not here, as thou didst vow to be;
That cast I am on my creative art,
Thy beauty all about me to impart
And load the air with thy tongue's melody!
There is a mighty heaving of the Spring;
And birds and flowers and leaves are homage paying
To Nature, in her young-love conquering
Of the iced blood of the Old Winter, playing
Himself to death in her fresh, sunny arms!
But, in thine absence, these song-luring charms
Cannot my sight to any fixure bring:
Mine eyes see thee alone—in vain imagining.
2
As from my brain emerging, thou art here!
O, Planet! leapt from out a winter-cloud
Which the winds strike and kill! how summer-dear
To my heart's long storm-shaken atmosphere
Is thy dew-balmy light! Now, Spring is proud!
And thee in her and her in thee I view
And hear, in all the heaven of sound and hue!
O, God! it is the trust and love within
That give the glory to thy handiwork!
Dear! the World lies when, garrulous of Sin,
Our lives from their best living it would irk:
With thee to love, my Faith's sweet Origin!
I worship God, and am a Spirit indeed;
Without thee, on the thorns of disbelief I bleed!
