Orta-undis, and other poems | ||
79
LOQUITUR DIANA.
My temples on my arm I lean,
While glides Diana through the screen
Of tall and overhanging trees,
Until my lifted face she sees,
And book spread idly on my knees.
While glides Diana through the screen
Of tall and overhanging trees,
Until my lifted face she sees,
And book spread idly on my knees.
High overheard the leaves are stirred:
From tree to tree, remotely heard
The katydid's incessant call:
Still through the boughs and over all,
The silver shafts of Dian fall.
From tree to tree, remotely heard
The katydid's incessant call:
Still through the boughs and over all,
The silver shafts of Dian fall.
Oh Dian, thou who from thy skies
Dost nightly look into her eyes,
(Her brown eyes unto thee upturned)
Say if her heart hath ever burned
As mine for her hath yearned?
Dost nightly look into her eyes,
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Say if her heart hath ever burned
As mine for her hath yearned?
Remembers she each summer night
When we beheld thee, from the height,
The silent woods of gloom deliver:
And saw in eddies of the river
Thy arrows fall and shiver.
When we beheld thee, from the height,
The silent woods of gloom deliver:
And saw in eddies of the river
Thy arrows fall and shiver.
Caressingly I held in mine
Her little hands: No joys of wine,
Or gold, or books in mortal ken,
Can yield such happiness again.
—Ah, Dian, why repeat them then?
(Luna loquitur.)Her little hands: No joys of wine,
Or gold, or books in mortal ken,
Can yield such happiness again.
—Ah, Dian, why repeat them then?
‘Why bring them back?—Oh murmur vain!
Doth not the miser count his gain
In coffers hid?—Thou safe and fast
Beneath the lid that shuts the past,
These golden hours hast.
Doth not the miser count his gain
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Beneath the lid that shuts the past,
These golden hours hast.
What more would'st thou or any one?
A precious heart thy deeds have won
For thee. Behold how earnestly
With lifted eyes she follows me,
Believing that I look on thee.’
A precious heart thy deeds have won
For thee. Behold how earnestly
With lifted eyes she follows me,
Believing that I look on thee.’
1846.
Orta-undis, and other poems | ||