 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE GARDEN OF DELIGHT
Slumber, child, sweet-heart of Eròs, and dream in thy lover's own garden,
Where the sweet apple abounds and the myrtles are many and deep;
Rest, he has watch at thy pillow of rose-petals shed ere they harden;
Rest, if a harsh wind arise then his wing shall be round thee in sleep.
Where the sweet apple abounds and the myrtles are many and deep;
Rest, he has watch at thy pillow of rose-petals shed ere they harden;
Rest, if a harsh wind arise then his wing shall be round thee in sleep.
If a sunbeam alight on his darling, the god will arise and give shadow;
If a droning importunate bee loiter, he makes it go by;
Tho' it seek to no flower that is sweeter than this sleeping one in its meadow;
No honey-bloom equals his own in the lands where the asphodels lie.
If a droning importunate bee loiter, he makes it go by;
Tho' it seek to no flower that is sweeter than this sleeping one in its meadow;
No honey-bloom equals his own in the lands where the asphodels lie.
Dream, therefore, love's child-love, serenely, thy suitor will helm thee sweet vision;
Some shadows are baleful of night; he will heed that he guide them away.
He will breathe on thine eyelids a dream drawn down from the valeheads elysian,
Painted with rainbow and set to the music of murmuring spray.
Some shadows are baleful of night; he will heed that he guide them away.
He will breathe on thine eyelids a dream drawn down from the valeheads elysian,
Painted with rainbow and set to the music of murmuring spray.
Lest thy soul pine for his in the absence of sleep, lest another be near thee,
He will send thee his glorified form, more a god than he dares be awake.
O my child, the intense very Erós with beams of his presence would sear thee;
Therefore he softens his rays; his effulgence he dims for thy sake.
He will send thee his glorified form, more a god than he dares be awake.
O my child, the intense very Erós with beams of his presence would sear thee;
Therefore he softens his rays; his effulgence he dims for thy sake.
80
Ah, slumber is well, but the rising is better, my queen, as the shaken
Pictures of orchards in waves echo back the gold apples less clear;
So 'tis sweeter, if Eròs with burning lips over thee whisper, to waken;
Then arise for his doves are around and no ravens of Anteros near.
Pictures of orchards in waves echo back the gold apples less clear;
So 'tis sweeter, if Eròs with burning lips over thee whisper, to waken;
Then arise for his doves are around and no ravens of Anteros near.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |