 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
273
FIRST LOVE.
Oh happiness beyond not words alone,Too large, too deep to be articulate;
Which can but dumbly sit as at the gate
Of speech, and murmur, and with signs make known
Its ecstasy, when first Love first doth own
And recognise itself. Oh bliss too great,
When heaving hearts on hearts reciprocate,
And on their rise and fall, his wavy throne,
Love broods in Halcyon-calm! Oh, in what thought,
Like precious essence in like-costly vase,
Shall Memory embalm thee as it ought?
Or, being gone, what tears that vital pause
Shall register; or from what shall be wrought
Fit lachrymatory to match the cause?
| Stones from The Quarry | |