 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
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TO GERTRUDE IN THE SPIRIT WORLD.
WHAT ART THOU LIKE?
What art thou like, sweet lady mine, I wonder?
Kind friends have spoken—but of no avail
I find their earthly and much hindered tale
Which this world's mortal weakness breaks in sunder.
Oh, art thou rose-flushed, love,—or art thou pale?
Oh, dwellest thou beyond all seas, all thunder,
Or rose-built bowers of endless brilliance under,
Soft haunts that no fierce storm-winged blasts assail?
Kind friends have spoken—but of no avail
I find their earthly and much hindered tale
Which this world's mortal weakness breaks in sunder.
Oh, art thou rose-flushed, love,—or art thou pale?
Oh, dwellest thou beyond all seas, all thunder,
Or rose-built bowers of endless brilliance under,
Soft haunts that no fierce storm-winged blasts assail?
Lift up thy light of eyes upon me, sweet!
Oh, are they hazel orbs, or are they brown?
Or blue or grey—and flow thy tresses down
In one rich auburn torrent to thy feet?
Or are thine eyes of some unearthly hue,
And locks diviner than e'en Raphael drew?
Oh, are they hazel orbs, or are they brown?
Or blue or grey—and flow thy tresses down
In one rich auburn torrent to thy feet?
Or are thine eyes of some unearthly hue,
And locks diviner than e'en Raphael drew?
THOU ART THE SUMMER.
Oh, love! thou art the summer; thy sweet breast
Is summer in its softest, tenderest glow:—
Oh! what are lilies to thy neck of snow?
The bosom wherein all my pain I rest,
Soothed past all speaking, infinitely blest!
Delivered now from every dart of woe
And tribulation:—yea, sweet, kiss me so—
Now blush again, shaming the blushing west!
Is summer in its softest, tenderest glow:—
Oh! what are lilies to thy neck of snow?
The bosom wherein all my pain I rest,
Soothed past all speaking, infinitely blest!
Delivered now from every dart of woe
And tribulation:—yea, sweet, kiss me so—
Now blush again, shaming the blushing west!
Thou art the summer; mine eternal rose
Thou art of heavenly summers yet unseen—
Bear thou thy love-soft sceptre, O my queen!
Thy more than regal beauty now disclose;
Sway all my pulses with imperial sway,
A white moon moving my heart's tidal way.
Thou art of heavenly summers yet unseen—
Bear thou thy love-soft sceptre, O my queen!
Thy more than regal beauty now disclose;
Sway all my pulses with imperial sway,
A white moon moving my heart's tidal way.
THE HAY-FIELDS ON THE CLIFF TOP.
Just as the hay-fields on the cliff-top draw
Seafarers—yea, two miles away from land!
Bringing sweet thoughts of many a leafy strand,
Making more hateful the fierce wind and raw
That smites those barren furrows which they plough—
Just as the scent of hay-fields makes the hand
Tremble upon the oar, the heart crave now
For fields where flowers and grass-blades do expand:—
Seafarers—yea, two miles away from land!
Bringing sweet thoughts of many a leafy strand,
Making more hateful the fierce wind and raw
That smites those barren furrows which they plough—
Just as the scent of hay-fields makes the hand
Tremble upon the oar, the heart crave now
For fields where flowers and grass-blades do expand:—
So, Gertrude, far away thou drawest me
From life and labour, and their scentless sea—
Sweeter than hay-fields is thy spirit-breath,
Which, loved one, lures me through the gulfs of death,
More wonderful the magic of thine eyes,
Convulsed at sight of which life swoons and dies.
From life and labour, and their scentless sea—
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Which, loved one, lures me through the gulfs of death,
More wonderful the magic of thine eyes,
Convulsed at sight of which life swoons and dies.
SWEET PASSIONATE SPIRIT.
Spirit thou art—yet not beyond the reach
Of passion—yea, more passionate because
Not bound nor subject to dull earthly laws,
Nor limited by earthly feeble speech.
Sweet passionate spirit! in my song I teach
The great grand truth that spirit-high desire
To earthly longing is as potent fire
To smouldering flame—that death transfigures each.
Of passion—yea, more passionate because
Not bound nor subject to dull earthly laws,
Nor limited by earthly feeble speech.
Sweet passionate spirit! in my song I teach
The great grand truth that spirit-high desire
To earthly longing is as potent fire
To smouldering flame—that death transfigures each.
Oh, Gertrude, just because thou art a saint,
A disembodied spirit, a queen indeed,
With love of thy dear soul I yearn, I faint,
My feet upon the flints, pursuing, bleed—
Sweet loving spirit! from heaven I bring thee down,
To aid my labour, and bestow its crown!
A disembodied spirit, a queen indeed,
With love of thy dear soul I yearn, I faint,
My feet upon the flints, pursuing, bleed—
Sweet loving spirit! from heaven I bring thee down,
To aid my labour, and bestow its crown!
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THY LAUGHTER.
Oh, love, there is a laughter on thy tongue,
Sweeter than music, tenderer than sighs,
Softer than love's low questions and replies,
Purer than when a nightingale hath sung!
Lo! yesternight how soft the cadence rung!
Oh, love, there is a laughter in thine eyes,
Tho' thou art angel, when thy swift glance flies
Towards me; thy lips laugh, honeysuckle-hung.
Sweeter than music, tenderer than sighs,
Softer than love's low questions and replies,
Purer than when a nightingale hath sung!
Lo! yesternight how soft the cadence rung!
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Tho' thou art angel, when thy swift glance flies
Towards me; thy lips laugh, honeysuckle-hung.
Thy laughter hath a magic silver-sweet,
A ripple of soft unearthly luring sound—
And oh how rings thy foot upon the ground,
And oh how tender is thine own heart-beat
When next to mine the tides in unison
Rush first together, then, more softly, on.
A ripple of soft unearthly luring sound—
And oh how rings thy foot upon the ground,
And oh how tender is thine own heart-beat
When next to mine the tides in unison
Rush first together, then, more softly, on.
WHAT MATTERS IT?
What matters it if I throughout the day
Be plagued by common faces, dreary things—
At nightfall lo! the folding of thy wings—
At eventide thy footstep on the wings—
At eventide thy footstep on the way.
The holy dusk thine holier advent brings,
Gertrude, my spirit-queen whom I obey—
Then of itself my harp awakes and sings,
And forth the golden sweet dream-fancies stray.
Be plagued by common faces, dreary things—
At nightfall lo! the folding of thy wings—
At eventide thy footstep on the wings—
At eventide thy footstep on the way.
The holy dusk thine holier advent brings,
Gertrude, my spirit-queen whom I obey—
Then of itself my harp awakes and sings,
And forth the golden sweet dream-fancies stray.
Oh, sacred lady, past all passion mine,
Yea, past all earthly yearning, all desire,
Hear thou the aspiration of my lyre—
Disdain not this rose-wreath that I would twine
Softly for thee—oh twist it in thine hair,
Making rich clustered blossoms yet more fair.
Yea, past all earthly yearning, all desire,
Hear thou the aspiration of my lyre—
Disdain not this rose-wreath that I would twine
Softly for thee—oh twist it in thine hair,
Making rich clustered blossoms yet more fair.
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A MAIDEN SPIRIT.
In spite of all thy lives, maiden thou art—
For him who hath the soul to understand.
Ringless thy finger is: unkissed thine hand:
Spotless the untouched beauty of thine heart.
Now we have met, sweet love, we shall not part.
Make me the lord of immemorial land
Wherein thou hast had thy treasures: flowers expand
With thee that shine not now in vale or mart.
For him who hath the soul to understand.
Ringless thy finger is: unkissed thine hand:
Spotless the untouched beauty of thine heart.
Now we have met, sweet love, we shall not part.
Make me the lord of immemorial land
Wherein thou hast had thy treasures: flowers expand
With thee that shine not now in vale or mart.
They are the blossoms of a former world,
By thy sweet power made manifest to me:
Oh, the great wondrous calm white petals curled
So softly and so smoothly that I see!
Unfold them, lady,—and thyself unfold,
That I may reach thy blossom-heart of gold!
By thy sweet power made manifest to me:
Oh, the great wondrous calm white petals curled
So softly and so smoothly that I see!
Unfold them, lady,—and thyself unfold,
That I may reach thy blossom-heart of gold!
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