 | Love-Sonnets |  |
42
XXXIV.
[Thy picture's lips of mute and moveless art]
Thy picture's lips of mute and moveless artAre unto me an eloquent despair.
I call them fondest names in many a prayer,
I press them to my own: they will not part.
No sudden laughters from their stillness start,
No fluttering chase of words through the bright air
Breaks from their fencèd covert; yet they wear
The very language of thy love-taught heart.
Music that ere it can be hearkened dies,
A sweetness half-suspected in the brain:—
So the faint Arab lifting his weak eyes
Sees like a cruel laughter mocking rise
The glitter of shining water along the plain,
And phantom palms that beckon from the skies.
| Love-Sonnets | |