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THE BETROTHED.
“O, bless thee, happy, happy, revelling brook!
Whose merry voice within this lonely nook,
In ceaseless gurgle, all day long
Singeth the dancing leaves among;—
I love,—O, how I love thy song!”
So from its joyous fount the almost bride,
Sweet Esther, poured her heart that brook beside.
The mystic word had passed its coral gate,
The little mystic Yes that sealed her fate:
'T is now upon the outward air;
Yet not, like other sounds, to share
The common death; for, haply, there
The formless element that near it flew
Caught the warm breath, and into being grew.
Whose merry voice within this lonely nook,
In ceaseless gurgle, all day long
Singeth the dancing leaves among;—
I love,—O, how I love thy song!”
So from its joyous fount the almost bride,
Sweet Esther, poured her heart that brook beside.
The mystic word had passed its coral gate,
The little mystic Yes that sealed her fate:
'T is now upon the outward air;
Yet not, like other sounds, to share
The common death; for, haply, there
The formless element that near it flew
Caught the warm breath, and into being grew.
Her page-like spirit now, that little word
Ever before her, like some fairy bird,
Flits in her path; to all around,
To every form, to every sound,
Imparting love; till e'en the ground,
The dull, dark ground beneath, the trees above,
And chiming breezes, all, breathe only love.
And with that little word there ever comes
A tune like that the homeward wild-bee hums,
Shaping in sound her winter's store.
The future now seems brimming o'er
With nameless good; nor asks she more
Of jealous Time, than dimly thus to look
Into his bright, unlettered, future book.
Ever before her, like some fairy bird,
Flits in her path; to all around,
To every form, to every sound,
Imparting love; till e'en the ground,
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And chiming breezes, all, breathe only love.
And with that little word there ever comes
A tune like that the homeward wild-bee hums,
Shaping in sound her winter's store.
The future now seems brimming o'er
With nameless good; nor asks she more
Of jealous Time, than dimly thus to look
Into his bright, unlettered, future book.
One only form of all the crowded past
She could not, if she would, from memory cast,—
Nay, from her sight; for wheresoe'er
She turns or looks, afar or near,
That haunting form is ever there.
Her own sweet Poet, too, no other gives,—
E'en on his unread page that image lives;
And, sooth to say, she loves that page the more,—
No, never had it touched her so before:
She loves the woods, the earth, the sky;
For all that in their empires lie
But teem of him,—that dearer I,
On which she may not blush for aye to dwell,—
That other self she cannot love too well.
She could not, if she would, from memory cast,—
Nay, from her sight; for wheresoe'er
She turns or looks, afar or near,
That haunting form is ever there.
Her own sweet Poet, too, no other gives,—
E'en on his unread page that image lives;
And, sooth to say, she loves that page the more,—
No, never had it touched her so before:
She loves the woods, the earth, the sky;
For all that in their empires lie
But teem of him,—that dearer I,
On which she may not blush for aye to dwell,—
That other self she cannot love too well.
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