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So saying, blushing like a new-kissed maid, From off her neck a little gem she drew, That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks laid,

The secrets of her glorious beauty knew; 424 And ere he well perceived what she would do, She touched his hand, the gem within it lay, And, turning, from his sight she fled away.

Then at the doorway where her rosy heel Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did stare, 429

And still upon his hand he seemed to feel
The varying kisses of her fingers fair;
Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and
bare,

And dizzily throughout the castle passed,
Till by the ruined fane he stood at last. 434

Then weighing still the gem within his hand, He stumbled backward through the cypress wood,

Thinking the while of some strange lovely land.

Where all his life should be most fair and good Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood, 439 And slowly thence passed down unto the bay Red with the death of that bewildering day.

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The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 56

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE1

Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine,2 Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,

They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;

And like a soul belated,

In hell and heaven unmated,

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642

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,

48

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands..

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;

Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;

To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;

And love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

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ITYLUS1

96

Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thy heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is
shed?

O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy
mouth?

Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?

12

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the
south;

But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire,
Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth

Feed the heart of the night with fire. 18

I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,
All spring through till the spring be done.
Clothed with the light of the night on the
dew,

Sing, while the hours and the wild birds

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Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guestchamber,

How hast thou heart to be glad thereof
yet?

For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,
Till thou remember and I forget.

1 cf. note on Sidney's The Nightingale

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