 | Experiences |  |
23
THE DARK ROSE.
Though all my loves of old have passed away
And lie at rest wrapped in your holy clay,
I do not therefore love you less or more,
Seeing I love you for yourself, asthore:
My own land, with your misty vales and hills
Where my heart wanders by the happy rills.
And lie at rest wrapped in your holy clay,
I do not therefore love you less or more,
Seeing I love you for yourself, asthore:
My own land, with your misty vales and hills
Where my heart wanders by the happy rills.
I love you for yourself. Your beauty green
Calls to me in the night-watches between
The day and day; and though I never come
Your stars are as a million lights of home
Upon your sacred hill-tops, crest on crest,
Ere the first bird has wakened the first nest.
Calls to me in the night-watches between
The day and day; and though I never come
Your stars are as a million lights of home
Upon your sacred hill-tops, crest on crest,
Ere the first bird has wakened the first nest.
I love you, love you for your own sweet sake.
Ere the first bird awakens the first brake,
I dream of you amid your quiet seas.
Let others tell your history, memories,
Counting your heroes. Not for these or those
I love you; only for yourself, Dark Rose.
Ere the first bird awakens the first brake,
I dream of you amid your quiet seas.
Let others tell your history, memories,
Counting your heroes. Not for these or those
I love you; only for yourself, Dark Rose.
I love you, not for any living or dead,
For any gold or any dear black head.
Yea, were you desert, I should love no less
You with your mother-breast of milkiness,
Of milk and honey, that still calls me back,
My feet, my heart, on the familiar track.
For any gold or any dear black head.
Yea, were you desert, I should love no less
You with your mother-breast of milkiness,
Of milk and honey, that still calls me back,
My feet, my heart, on the familiar track.
24
Your hidden glens, your singing waters call,
Allure me still at dawn and even-fall;
The wind that ruffles all your meadows grey,
Sighs in my heart at dawn and close of day—
Sighs in my heart and will not let me be.
The wind from over your mountains troubles me.
Allure me still at dawn and even-fall;
The wind that ruffles all your meadows grey,
Sighs in my heart at dawn and close of day—
Sighs in my heart and will not let me be.
The wind from over your mountains troubles me.
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