 | Lays of France |  |
89
In joy; yea, now and after me;
And, for all I shall sing or tell,
Hold me but one who loveth well,
And singeth of mere joy to see
His lady's golden loveliness,—
Yea, joyeth, and may scarce repress
The song he hath for every tress
Her hand hath braided or set free—
The rush of rapturous words that break
Frail wings against his lips and take
A songless death, for mere delight
In that fresh miracle of white
And perfect red and perfect gold
90
Renewed and yet unchanged in her.
Whence are the rosy seas that stir
With richly glowing wave of thin
Ethereal fire, alway within,
Alway about her heart—all day
Flooding the extreme flower of lip
And finger-tip and bosom-tip,—
As summer, flooding in such way
Earth, air and heaven, will seem to stay
Gathered up richly in the last
And least of the last rose?—O whence
Is all her wonder, never past,
Nor ever dwelt with and possest
Quite through, bewildering the sense
With loving, looking and suspense
Of loving;—shapeless shades and swift
Transfigurement of heavens that drift
Ever with glory giving place
To glory on her form and face?—
Yea, infinite of change and light
And wide uncomprehended sight
Seems every way his lady's grace,—
91
Some infinite world of flowers, transformed
By unseen wands of wind. And he,
Beholding, loves; but may not see
Or know whence aught of her may be:
Only, beholding, he hath formed,
Ah, many a song for very love
Of her and wonder. But, above,
—Yea, quite beyond the rapturous days
He leads with her, he thinketh well
Some heaven with fair untrodden ways
Shall ever be for him to dwell
Rejoicing in her, learning praise
More passionate of her, winning whole
Immortal knowledge of her soul.
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