My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
XIV.
One Summer eve he sat beneath the white Grace of the Wood;
Where Birds of Thought so often brought his love ambrosial food;
When all the spirits of the flowers stole forth i' the hush of night,
And all the greenwood slumbered softly in a dream of light.
The world lay in a purple calm, and tenderness of tears;
In every pulse of being lived the tenderness of years.
He had wrestled with his passion,—caught up in its strong caress—
Voluptuous as a Bride of Fire, with arms as pitiless.
He had wept his pain in a fiery rain, and a calm fell from afar,
As a vision of sweet Peace comes treading down the spears of war.
Then in a trembling confidence of love to himself he talked,
And sang above his whispering heart, that felt what Spirit walked.
Where Birds of Thought so often brought his love ambrosial food;
When all the spirits of the flowers stole forth i' the hush of night,
And all the greenwood slumbered softly in a dream of light.
The world lay in a purple calm, and tenderness of tears;
In every pulse of being lived the tenderness of years.
He had wrestled with his passion,—caught up in its strong caress—
Voluptuous as a Bride of Fire, with arms as pitiless.
He had wept his pain in a fiery rain, and a calm fell from afar,
As a vision of sweet Peace comes treading down the spears of war.
304
And sang above his whispering heart, that felt what Spirit walked.
“We cannot lift the wintry pall
From buried life; nor bring
Back, with Love's passionate thinking, all
The glory of the Spring.
But soft along the old green way
We feel her breath of gold;
Glad ripples round her presence play,
She comes! and all is told.
From buried life; nor bring
Back, with Love's passionate thinking, all
The glory of the Spring.
But soft along the old green way
We feel her breath of gold;
Glad ripples round her presence play,
She comes! and all is told.
“So in Her absence Memory
Aye strives, but cannot paint
The Vision of her majesty;
The Sweetness of my Saint.
She comes! like dawn in spring her fame!
My winter-world doth melt;
The thorns with flowers are a-flame!
She smiles! and all is felt.”
Aye strives, but cannot paint
The Vision of her majesty;
The Sweetness of my Saint.
She comes! like dawn in spring her fame!
My winter-world doth melt;
The thorns with flowers are a-flame!
She smiles! and all is felt.”
Is it a vision! or the pure pale face
Of Lady Laura, visible through the trees?
Strange fire consumes the rich dew of her eyes!
Trembles her lip; her soul, though very calm,
Gleams like a naked sword from its soft sheath.
Ah, she has found his secret in its nest!
And will she crush him with her killing scorn?
He dare not know. She speaks; he scarcely hears,
So loud the blood goes singing through his brain.
“I am no longer Mistress at the Hall;
False friends have robbed me of my Home; they keep
My Lands until the Law shall do me right.
I leave To-morrow morn. I think you have
The mounting spirit to rise where'er you fall,
And shall rejoice to mark your fortunes shine.”
She paused; he raised his eyes to hers, and saw
The unuttered something that could not be told!
Her rustling robe thrilled all his life, and then
The sound of footsteps died upon the night.
Of Lady Laura, visible through the trees?
Strange fire consumes the rich dew of her eyes!
Trembles her lip; her soul, though very calm,
Gleams like a naked sword from its soft sheath.
Ah, she has found his secret in its nest!
And will she crush him with her killing scorn?
He dare not know. She speaks; he scarcely hears,
So loud the blood goes singing through his brain.
“I am no longer Mistress at the Hall;
False friends have robbed me of my Home; they keep
My Lands until the Law shall do me right.
305
The mounting spirit to rise where'er you fall,
And shall rejoice to mark your fortunes shine.”
She paused; he raised his eyes to hers, and saw
The unuttered something that could not be told!
Her rustling robe thrilled all his life, and then
The sound of footsteps died upon the night.
| My Lyrical Life | |