 | Impressions of Italy and Other Poems |  |
124
'TIS WELL FOR ME.
'Tis well for me those eyes so maddening,
Still make my soul in trances lie,
The intensity of Feeling's deadening,
And that I feel beneath thine eye!
Still make my soul in trances lie,
The intensity of Feeling's deadening,
And that I feel beneath thine eye!
'Tis overstrained, vague, strange, and fearful,
And leaves no strong impression clear,
My breath grows choaked—mine eye grows tearful,
'Tis all confusion, doubt, and fear.
And leaves no strong impression clear,
My breath grows choaked—mine eye grows tearful,
'Tis all confusion, doubt, and fear.
Were't not so—still should I be painting
On memory's tablets each rare charm;
'Tis well that rapt, o'erborne, and fainting,
My Soul escapes that deeper harm.
On memory's tablets each rare charm;
'Tis well that rapt, o'erborne, and fainting,
My Soul escapes that deeper harm.
125
Had I a little less of feeling,
More dangerous might that feeling prove;
But that excess seems almost stealing
The peril from the power of Love!
More dangerous might that feeling prove;
But that excess seems almost stealing
The peril from the power of Love!
When thou'rt away, oh! matchless Being,
When thou'rt away I breathe again;
I feel—I feel—like one that's fleeing
From ruin, misery, and from pain.
When thou'rt away I breathe again;
I feel—I feel—like one that's fleeing
From ruin, misery, and from pain.
The tyranny is so o'erpowering,
I joy to snatch one moment's calm;
And, coward-like, shrinking back and cowering,
I seek Oblivion's softening balm.
I joy to snatch one moment's calm;
And, coward-like, shrinking back and cowering,
I seek Oblivion's softening balm.
Perchance thou lovest me; that sweet story
Those maddening, maddening eyes have told,
With their soul-searching rays of glory,
That heart and mind in durance hold.
Those maddening, maddening eyes have told,
With their soul-searching rays of glory,
That heart and mind in durance hold.
126
I do believe thou lovest me, dearest,
Yet who shall say my love is blest,
When its best semblance, and its nearest,
Is a Volcano in the breast.
Yet who shall say my love is blest,
When its best semblance, and its nearest,
Is a Volcano in the breast.
No! pity me—All ye that ever
Have borne like burdens of distress;
Such love can ne'er be happy—never,
Though All conspire to cheer and bless.
Have borne like burdens of distress;
Such love can ne'er be happy—never,
Though All conspire to cheer and bless.
No! in itself 'tis too much anguish—
A poisoned crown—a gilded curse;
We pine—we doubt—we writhe—we languish—
Scarce Fortune's wrongs can make it worse!
A poisoned crown—a gilded curse;
We pine—we doubt—we writhe—we languish—
Scarce Fortune's wrongs can make it worse!
The love some feel—a peaceful current
May glide in smooth and measured flow;
No boiling surge—no dashing torrent—
But their love is not my love—no!
May glide in smooth and measured flow;
No boiling surge—no dashing torrent—
But their love is not my love—no!
127
Oh! 'tis a rage—a spasm—a fever
Torn, tortured through its own excess—
Such love can ne'er be happy—never,
Though crowned with every Happiness!
Torn, tortured through its own excess—
Such love can ne'er be happy—never,
Though crowned with every Happiness!
| Impressions of Italy and Other Poems | |