 | Fugitive poetry |  |
88
TO A BELLE.
All that thou art, I thrillingly
And sensibly do feel;
For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,
And my heart is not of steel;
I meet thee in the festal hall—
I turn thee in the dance—
And I wait, as would a worshipper,
The giving of thy glance.
And sensibly do feel;
For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,
And my heart is not of steel;
I meet thee in the festal hall—
I turn thee in the dance—
And I wait, as would a worshipper,
The giving of thy glance.
Thy beauty is as undenied
As the beauty of a star;
And thy heart beats just as equally,
Whate'er thy praises are;
And so long without a parallel
Thy loveliness hath shone,
That, follow'd like the tided moon,
Thou mov'st as calmly on.
As the beauty of a star;
And thy heart beats just as equally,
Whate'er thy praises are;
And so long without a parallel
Thy loveliness hath shone,
That, follow'd like the tided moon,
Thou mov'st as calmly on.
Thy worth I, for myself, have seen—
I know that thou art leal;
Leal to a woman's gentleness,
And thine own spirit's weal;
Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,
And holier than gay;
And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,
Where angel fingers play.
I know that thou art leal;
Leal to a woman's gentleness,
And thine own spirit's weal;
Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,
And holier than gay;
And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,
Where angel fingers play.
89
I know all this—I feel all this—
And my heart believes it true;
And my fancy hath often borne me on,
As a lover's fancies do;
And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,
And would love with its human all,
And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear,
And would bound to a silken thrall.
And my heart believes it true;
And my fancy hath often borne me on,
As a lover's fancies do;
And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,
And would love with its human all,
And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear,
And would bound to a silken thrall.
But it loves not thee.—It would sooner bind
Its thoughts to the open sky;
It would worship as soon a familiar star,
That is bright to every eye.
'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all—
The wave of the beautiful sea—
'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,
To hope for the love of thee.
Its thoughts to the open sky;
It would worship as soon a familiar star,
That is bright to every eye.
'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all—
The wave of the beautiful sea—
'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,
To hope for the love of thee.
But wert thou lowly—yet leal as now;
Rich but in thine own mind;
Humble—in all but the queenly brow;
And to thine own glory blind—
Were the world to prove but a faithless thing,
And worshippers leave thy shrine—
My love were, then, but a gift for thee,
And my strong deep heart were thine.
Rich but in thine own mind;
Humble—in all but the queenly brow;
And to thine own glory blind—
Were the world to prove but a faithless thing,
And worshippers leave thy shrine—
My love were, then, but a gift for thee,
And my strong deep heart were thine.
| Fugitive poetry | |