Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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THE FIRST LETTER. |
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168
THE FIRST LETTER.
Not since the breeze that took
Thy soul by kind surprise, and turning o'er
Its pages on a sudden, let me look
Upon my name ere yet thou wast aware
(Keep thou that leaf turned ever down, that there
The book may open soonest!) have I known
A moment like to this;
Thy soul by kind surprise, and turning o'er
Its pages on a sudden, let me look
Upon my name ere yet thou wast aware
(Keep thou that leaf turned ever down, that there
The book may open soonest!) have I known
A moment like to this;
I keep thy seal
Unbroken, as it were thy hand in mine;
I hold it clasped in silence, till I feel
A warmth hath reached my spirit; then I ope
These pages, confident as one with Hope
In certain league; I need but touch this spring
That now I play with to and fro, to bring
Thy Presence on the stillness; these enclose
Thy spirit shut within them. Even now
Thy soul's breath is upon them—as a Rose
Fresh plucked and dewy with the morning, thou
Hast sent me of thine inner life that glows
In sweetness; fain am I, yet know not how,
To send thee thus each fancy as it blows;
But while I gather these my thoughts, they fade,
And pressed upon the page their colours fly,
And all their sap runs from them, wan and dry,
Like withered flowers within a herbal laid;
And this may be, perchance, because my heart
Hath been alike their cradle and their tomb,
Close folded there too long, their hues depart,—
Yet press them unto thine, and they will bloom!
Unbroken, as it were thy hand in mine;
I hold it clasped in silence, till I feel
A warmth hath reached my spirit; then I ope
These pages, confident as one with Hope
In certain league; I need but touch this spring
That now I play with to and fro, to bring
Thy Presence on the stillness; these enclose
Thy spirit shut within them. Even now
Thy soul's breath is upon them—as a Rose
Fresh plucked and dewy with the morning, thou
Hast sent me of thine inner life that glows
In sweetness; fain am I, yet know not how,
To send thee thus each fancy as it blows;
169
And pressed upon the page their colours fly,
And all their sap runs from them, wan and dry,
Like withered flowers within a herbal laid;
And this may be, perchance, because my heart
Hath been alike their cradle and their tomb,
Close folded there too long, their hues depart,—
Yet press them unto thine, and they will bloom!
| Poems | |