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 And dizzily throughout the castle passed, 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. The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 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, For men that sow to reap: Here life has death for neighbour, 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, They bow themselves and slumber And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, 8 16 24 32 642 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, Pale, beyond porch and portal, 48 Crowned with calm leaves, she stands With cold immortal hands; She waits for each and other, The life of fruits and corn; There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; Dead dreams of days forsaken, 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. 80 72 64 56 ITYLUS1 96 Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, Hast thou forgotten ere I forget? 12 Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire, Feed the heart of the night with fire. 18 I the nightingale all spring through, Sing, while the hours and the wild birds Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guestchamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof For where thou fliest I shall not follow, 1 cf. note on Sidney's The Nightingale 30 6 |