 | London at Night |  |
67
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And hast thou wept for me? O joy and grief;
I know not which is deepest—which is chief—
'T is happiness! and yet I scarce can bear
That thus in my keen sorrows thou should'st share—
'T is sadness! yet 't would wring my very heart
Were that most sweet dejection to depart!
And hast thou wept for me? O grief and joy;
Joy—with what costly, exquisite alloy!
Grief—with what honeyed sweetening in her cup,
Tempting the heart to drink its rich draughts up!
It is a sorrowful, yet strong delight,
Mastering the spirit with its gentle might;
It is a tender and serene regret,
Such as my heart could wish not to forget.
I know not which is deepest—which is chief—
'T is happiness! and yet I scarce can bear
That thus in my keen sorrows thou should'st share—
'T is sadness! yet 't would wring my very heart
Were that most sweet dejection to depart!
And hast thou wept for me? O grief and joy;
Joy—with what costly, exquisite alloy!
68
Tempting the heart to drink its rich draughts up!
It is a sorrowful, yet strong delight,
Mastering the spirit with its gentle might;
It is a tender and serene regret,
Such as my heart could wish not to forget.
And hast thou wept for me? O joy and grief—
I know not which is strongest, which is chief!
Those passionate, and O! most precious tears,
The interpreters of Love's warm hopes and fears:
How do they seem along my heart to melt
(That heart which such chill loneliness hath felt)
How freshly through my softened soul they flow,
And reconcile to much of pain and woe.
I know not which is strongest, which is chief!
Those passionate, and O! most precious tears,
The interpreters of Love's warm hopes and fears:
How do they seem along my heart to melt
(That heart which such chill loneliness hath felt)
How freshly through my softened soul they flow,
And reconcile to much of pain and woe.
69
Mine had flowed feelingly and fast as well,
For they were stirred within their secret cell!
But thine—those passionate and precious tears—
Pure as the light that streams from heaven's fair spheres,
Too soon, Beloved and Loving that thou art,
Rose into Hope's own rainbows round my heart!
For they were stirred within their secret cell!
But thine—those passionate and precious tears—
Pure as the light that streams from heaven's fair spheres,
Too soon, Beloved and Loving that thou art,
Rose into Hope's own rainbows round my heart!
| London at Night | |