 | This, that and the other |  |
BEHOLD, I MISS THEE, LOVE.
I miss thine arms, beloved!
Thy breast whereon my head was wont to lie,
While the pale moon clomb up into the sky,
And winds like vagrants roved.
I miss thy calm, deep eyes,
That, smiling all their Peace into my soul,
Taught my wild yearnings where to find their goal,
And made earth Paradise!
I miss thine earnest praise!
Dost thou remember, resting on thy heart,
How some low gush of trembling song would start
Some dream of other days;
And I the silence broke,
Whilst thou, my heaven, with thy calmest eyes,
Bent o'er me, as in summer bend the skies,
Blessing the words I spoke?
Or how for hours I sat,
And whispered legends, told alone to thee,
Of fairy land, so far beyond the sea,
And tricksy pomps thereat?
Till life a glory seemed,
And we, like mortals whom some god had blest,
Immortal grew, and tranced in golden rest,
As Grecian poets dreamed.
Thy breast whereon my head was wont to lie,
While the pale moon clomb up into the sky,
And winds like vagrants roved.
I miss thy calm, deep eyes,
That, smiling all their Peace into my soul,
Taught my wild yearnings where to find their goal,
And made earth Paradise!
I miss thine earnest praise!
Dost thou remember, resting on thy heart,
How some low gush of trembling song would start
Some dream of other days;
And I the silence broke,
Whilst thou, my heaven, with thy calmest eyes,
Bent o'er me, as in summer bend the skies,
Blessing the words I spoke?
Or how for hours I sat,
And whispered legends, told alone to thee,
Of fairy land, so far beyond the sea,
And tricksy pomps thereat?
Till life a glory seemed,
And we, like mortals whom some god had blest,
Immortal grew, and tranced in golden rest,
As Grecian poets dreamed.
347
Be satisfied! To thee
My soul no veil has worn. It has been thine,
And thou hast lingered o'er each burning line,
Till naught was mystery;
And in each writing traced
By fate, or passion-spell upon my heart,
So long thy name has borne a blessed part,
It cannot be erased.
Be satisfied! The form
Though other claim, or call the lips his own,
He cannot win to them the burning tone
Thy love made warm!
I may not be thy bride,
But, O, by all the past, whose glory hath been thine,
By all the paths thy soul hath trod with mine,
Those souls shall be affied!
My soul no veil has worn. It has been thine,
And thou hast lingered o'er each burning line,
Till naught was mystery;
And in each writing traced
By fate, or passion-spell upon my heart,
So long thy name has borne a blessed part,
It cannot be erased.
Be satisfied! The form
Though other claim, or call the lips his own,
He cannot win to them the burning tone
Thy love made warm!
I may not be thy bride,
But, O, by all the past, whose glory hath been thine,
By all the paths thy soul hath trod with mine,
Those souls shall be affied!
| This, that and the other | |