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190
IN SICILY.
Yonder is Ætna purple with one cloud.Below us the enduring water-sound
Arises, broken where the vineyard men
Sing in their houses; under and below
The long Tyrrhenian islands meet the foam;
Then the illimitable sea rolls in,
Where the lights pass; until the rosy space
Of ether deepens into olive grey;
And rays the floating purple like a hand,
Or holds the gates of light in violet waves.
Why art thou silent, voice of my desire?
Be pitiful and answer, lest I feel
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Of thy sweet hand that lulls my soul asleep.
Bend thine eyes, beautiful with all their light,
Full on my face; let thy lips follow them;
Lest I should fear delusion, and awake
Hereafter weeping for a phantom joy.
What have I done to merit love of thine,
How shall I rise up worthy of mine own?
Honour enough for any lips of mine
To kiss the little broken cistus bud
Slain by thy rosy feet at some cliff edge.
Wonder of Eros, this and thus was I;
The dull weak thing, whose instinct at thy face
Drave him to fall in adoration prone.
He saw thy beauty terrible as fire,
His feeble nature faltered as in pain.
Marvel of love, whose empire alters all,
Since thou hast deigned to raise me to thy smile;
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To ascend and glisten in her glorious arms,
Till in his vapour all her form is lost;
But he who veils her round glows more and more.
As in a silence of warm air the lark
Sings, in thy love my spirit is content;
As in a waste of many buds the bee
Is busy with much perfume, till it tire;
I am broken with the sweetness of my love.
I feel thy spirit brooding in serene
Completeness, deep as ether, pure as dew.
The still hours come and watch us and depart.
At length, beyond the glory of a star,
Thou dost arise; and, in thy leaving me,
Soothest my burning forehead with thy hand.
Or, in caress that runs before farewell,
I watch thee gather back thy heavy curls
Disordered; leaning in a silent care
To smile, before thy lips are moved to mine;
Lest I should lose thy smile, as intense light
Is lost if men consider it too near.
So leaning drink my soul into thine own;
Have thy sweet arm about me, and begin
A murmuring breath in whisper, as the talk
Of mated swallows when their nest is laid.
My flower of dawn, my bud with timid folds,
My lily, quailing ere the light is laid
Or rain goes on thy petals; O my song
Borne brokenly as a moth in perfumed air;
My silver cloud of spices consecrated,
O incense of my altar; last, my love;
Rest in that name of all the number best!
Ah, but to rest with thy sweet serious eyes
Above my slumber; that were lovely dream,
Worthy a lord of heaven, whose stately joy
Immortally continues. Whisper me
In living silence: thy smooth cheek on mine:
And let thy ringlet flakes efface the day
With clustered ripples from my glowing eyes.
And so remain as radiant as of yore,
Mysterious in thy beauty; till this heart
Dissolve to equal thine and pulse with thine,
In larger beatings, as a god's that loves,—
Until arterial ichors change the stream
Of puny life within me. Till I drain
Enormous inspiration at thy lips;
For surely they who love become as gods
Knowing all wisdom; and thy love shall draw
My faltering soul invested in its power,
Out and beyond this tumult we call Time.
Where the loud fruitless billows heave themselves,
Where the long heedless clouds roll and are lost—
Where one year's blossom is the next one's dust.
And summer's wife may fade to winter's dead.
The infants of her love surround her urn
Year after year with unenduring wreaths;
The dim sweet face fades from them. Children's eyes
Weep nothing long, and she shall be forgot
Out in the lonely grasses of her rest.
Sings, in thy love my spirit is content;
As in a waste of many buds the bee
Is busy with much perfume, till it tire;
I am broken with the sweetness of my love.
I feel thy spirit brooding in serene
Completeness, deep as ether, pure as dew.
The still hours come and watch us and depart.
At length, beyond the glory of a star,
Thou dost arise; and, in thy leaving me,
Soothest my burning forehead with thy hand.
Or, in caress that runs before farewell,
I watch thee gather back thy heavy curls
Disordered; leaning in a silent care
To smile, before thy lips are moved to mine;
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Is lost if men consider it too near.
So leaning drink my soul into thine own;
Have thy sweet arm about me, and begin
A murmuring breath in whisper, as the talk
Of mated swallows when their nest is laid.
My flower of dawn, my bud with timid folds,
My lily, quailing ere the light is laid
Or rain goes on thy petals; O my song
Borne brokenly as a moth in perfumed air;
My silver cloud of spices consecrated,
O incense of my altar; last, my love;
Rest in that name of all the number best!
Ah, but to rest with thy sweet serious eyes
Above my slumber; that were lovely dream,
Worthy a lord of heaven, whose stately joy
Immortally continues. Whisper me
In living silence: thy smooth cheek on mine:
And let thy ringlet flakes efface the day
With clustered ripples from my glowing eyes.
And so remain as radiant as of yore,
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Dissolve to equal thine and pulse with thine,
In larger beatings, as a god's that loves,—
Until arterial ichors change the stream
Of puny life within me. Till I drain
Enormous inspiration at thy lips;
For surely they who love become as gods
Knowing all wisdom; and thy love shall draw
My faltering soul invested in its power,
Out and beyond this tumult we call Time.
Where the loud fruitless billows heave themselves,
Where the long heedless clouds roll and are lost—
Where one year's blossom is the next one's dust.
And summer's wife may fade to winter's dead.
The infants of her love surround her urn
Year after year with unenduring wreaths;
The dim sweet face fades from them. Children's eyes
Weep nothing long, and she shall be forgot
Out in the lonely grasses of her rest.
Across the silver lyre-beat of my love,
Intrudes a chord of death! a moaning wire
Changes the honied cadence at its close.
Let the song cease. Ah, me, my beautiful,
Let us be very busy with our joy,
While there is light above us and sweet air.
I question not beyond thee. Love is more
Than Time: thine eyes are on me, and thy palm
Is wound with mine: thy lucid orbs resume
Old tenderness, and wean me from the thought
Beyond thine arms: thine instant, love, is more
Than all hereafter, when the immeasurable
Cycles of darkness brood above our graves
For ever. Leave me this, that I may hear
The breathings of thy bosom, hear thy sighs
Drawn out in long suppression from thy soul,
To tell me more than language all thy love.
Leave this, I question not while this endure:
Beautiful dream, be patient and delay
A little while; and leave us hand in hand
To watch the dædal changes of the woods,
The wave, the vineyard, and the floating heads
Of Ætna, islanded in amber cloud.
Intrudes a chord of death! a moaning wire
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Let the song cease. Ah, me, my beautiful,
Let us be very busy with our joy,
While there is light above us and sweet air.
I question not beyond thee. Love is more
Than Time: thine eyes are on me, and thy palm
Is wound with mine: thy lucid orbs resume
Old tenderness, and wean me from the thought
Beyond thine arms: thine instant, love, is more
Than all hereafter, when the immeasurable
Cycles of darkness brood above our graves
For ever. Leave me this, that I may hear
The breathings of thy bosom, hear thy sighs
Drawn out in long suppression from thy soul,
To tell me more than language all thy love.
Leave this, I question not while this endure:
Beautiful dream, be patient and delay
A little while; and leave us hand in hand
To watch the dædal changes of the woods,
The wave, the vineyard, and the floating heads
Of Ætna, islanded in amber cloud.
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