 | Poems : medley and Palestina |  |
IV
The Grove.
The wooded ravine fills with night
Between her roof and mine,
But through its boughs I mark the light
Of her chamber window shine,
A dazing glimmer, ruby bright,
That turns my brain like wine.
Between her roof and mine,
But through its boughs I mark the light
Of her chamber window shine,
A dazing glimmer, ruby bright,
That turns my brain like wine.
A little grove, a hundred trees:
I know each oak and fir.
I wander there to hear the glees
Of the birds who sing of her,
To kiss the passing of the breeze
Whose plumes her curtain stir.
I know each oak and fir.
I wander there to hear the glees
Of the birds who sing of her,
To kiss the passing of the breeze
Whose plumes her curtain stir.
65
A little grove, but cruel strong,
It rules us like to slaves;
Between our lives its shadows throng
With the sweep of ocean's waves;
The power that sunders right from wrong
Pervades the leafy naves.
It rules us like to slaves;
Between our lives its shadows throng
With the sweep of ocean's waves;
The power that sunders right from wrong
Pervades the leafy naves.
No might but his could break the spell
Who lords the demon sky.
How often would I thank him well,
If the beast would steal anigh
And lead me through that barring dell—
To win her?—No, to die.
Who lords the demon sky.
How often would I thank him well,
If the beast would steal anigh
And lead me through that barring dell—
To win her?—No, to die.
| Poems : medley and Palestina | |