My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
XII.
As earliest flowers, the sweet first-love of Spring,
Are tenderest in their fragrance—saintliest pure,
Love's firstlings, budding in the heart, unfold
Most precious sweet of all the lusty year;
And all his life is with their fragrance filled.
In shy and shady nooks he steals, to brood
O'er what his heart for worship lifteth up.
Are tenderest in their fragrance—saintliest pure,
Love's firstlings, budding in the heart, unfold
Most precious sweet of all the lusty year;
And all his life is with their fragrance filled.
In shy and shady nooks he steals, to brood
O'er what his heart for worship lifteth up.
With a ripe flush in his warm face the Dawn
Withdraws the veil of dew-mist from the shape
Of Beauty sleeping on the lap of Earth:
So down into his secret soul he peers,
Thinking of all her dear sweet womanly ways,
To see the veilèd Beauty through the mist,
And bows to bless her where she lies alight,
Unconscious of the reddening dawn of love.
Withdraws the veil of dew-mist from the shape
Of Beauty sleeping on the lap of Earth:
So down into his secret soul he peers,
Thinking of all her dear sweet womanly ways,
To see the veilèd Beauty through the mist,
And bows to bless her where she lies alight,
Unconscious of the reddening dawn of love.
302
A face, like nestling luxury of flowers;
Soft hair, on which Light drops a diadem;
The sweetest eyes,—ah, when in their far heaven
Shall Love rise up and beckon with the palm?—
And all the beauty hid from mortal gaze
Like lily-bud in leaves of cool green light.
Soft hair, on which Light drops a diadem;
The sweetest eyes,—ah, when in their far heaven
Shall Love rise up and beckon with the palm?—
And all the beauty hid from mortal gaze
Like lily-bud in leaves of cool green light.
His happy eyes o'erflow with holy dew,
Gathered in that rich air of secret love.
Anon his heart goes wandering like a wind
That reels through meads of spice, o'er hills of myrrh,
Drunk with flower-fragrance, and the wine of love,
And making music at the lightest touch,
Till faint with sweets it wearies into rest.
Gathered in that rich air of secret love.
Anon his heart goes wandering like a wind
That reels through meads of spice, o'er hills of myrrh,
Drunk with flower-fragrance, and the wine of love,
And making music at the lightest touch,
Till faint with sweets it wearies into rest.
| My Lyrical Life | |