 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
52
WHAT CAN I GIVE YOU?
I
What can I give you, lady? pearls will soonBe many, as I doubt not, in your hand—
What silver memory from a former land,
What echo of a chat beneath the moon,
What vision, in a sonnet for a boon
Set daintily, shall I be bold to place
Among the many presents proud to grace
Your boudoir, what choice jewel of a tune?
I cannot give you half, I give you all,
My songs, my volumes, both of them, complete—
You are my books, and they are nothing, sweet,
But one long sounding of a throstle's call
Whose hope is high that next his own may fall
The patter of another throstle's feet;
53
II
The soft alighting on a neighbouring boughOf the bright-breasted bird he doth adore;
Such are my poems, lady, nothing more,
A diadem to circle that pure brow,
A peacock's feather twined the tighter now
That through my negligence it fell before,
The scent of fancy's myrtle bruised and sore,
The voiceful repetition of my vow;
This then I give you; even your sweet soul,
Your own sweet self, my lady, back again,
Your self made audible in subtle strain,
And visible on wings of words that roll
Sonorous—you, the prompter of the whole,
Its ecstasy, its agony, its pain!
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