 | English Roses |  |
BLIND LOVE.
I sit in the darkness ever lone,
As the pretty ladies pass,
But I see not one
In my day foredone,
Though I drink of the life beneath the stone
And the passion in the grass;
O I hear the rustle of silken frocks,
And catch the breath from their perfumed locks
That speaks of their beauty after;
And a shadow of that great world so high
For a moment comes in its glory nigh,
With the ripple of love and laughter.
As the pretty ladies pass,
But I see not one
In my day foredone,
Though I drink of the life beneath the stone
And the passion in the grass;
O I hear the rustle of silken frocks,
And catch the breath from their perfumed locks
That speaks of their beauty after;
And a shadow of that great world so high
For a moment comes in its glory nigh,
With the ripple of love and laughter.
But I make me pictures of what I hear,
And I paint them with colours true
In my twilight hush
Till its chambers blush,
And my bosom leaps with a blissful fear
At their burning light and heavenly hue;
For I know that the things of earthly mould,
Whether jewelled silver or sanguine gold,
Have not half their fire or sweetness;
And I get at the heart of the human whole,
While the secret treasure reveals its soul
As my thought gives the fair completeness.
And I paint them with colours true
In my twilight hush
Till its chambers blush,
And my bosom leaps with a blissful fear
At their burning light and heavenly hue;
For I know that the things of earthly mould,
466
Have not half their fire or sweetness;
And I get at the heart of the human whole,
While the secret treasure reveals its soul
As my thought gives the fair completeness.
But of all the broken or brimming strains
That do visit my world of night,
Where my spirit feels
The old cosmic wheels
And the giant forces that fret their chains,
There is one that is pure delight;
It is just the river of crisping sound
And the trailing skirts that kiss the ground,
As the ladies pass my prison;
Like the lisp of leaves and the falling snow
With the babbling brooks that gently flow,
And the flowers of Spring new-risen.
That do visit my world of night,
Where my spirit feels
The old cosmic wheels
And the giant forces that fret their chains,
There is one that is pure delight;
It is just the river of crisping sound
And the trailing skirts that kiss the ground,
As the ladies pass my prison;
Like the lisp of leaves and the falling snow
With the babbling brooks that gently flow,
And the flowers of Spring new-risen.
Yet among the myriad steps that trip,
And amid the voices dear
Which are more than song
In that scented throng,
Is a radiant form with a rosier lip
And a purpose calm and clear;
I should tell her foot in a thousand feet
With its rythmic pulse, and prove it sweet
With its human care and kindness;
For my nature glows and is not the same,
And her presence turns my frost to flame
Till it blooms in its lonely blindness.
And amid the voices dear
Which are more than song
In that scented throng,
Is a radiant form with a rosier lip
And a purpose calm and clear;
I should tell her foot in a thousand feet
With its rythmic pulse, and prove it sweet
With its human care and kindness;
For my nature glows and is not the same,
And her presence turns my frost to flame
Till it blooms in its lonely blindness.
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