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Where the grasshopper doth sing
There our tent shall be the willow,
Ha! thy frozen pulses flutter
Kiss me ;--oh! thy lips are cold;
neck thine arms enfold They are soft, but chill and dead; And thy tears upon my head Burn like points of frozen lead.
Hasten to the bridal bed ;
Clasp me, till our hearts be grown
Till this dreadful transport may
away In the sleep that lasts alway.
We may dream in that long sleep,
Let us laugh, and make our mirth,
All the wide world, beside us
O Mary dear, that you were here With your brown eyes bright and clear And your sweet voice, like a bird Singing love to its lone mate
* * * sky
In the ivy bower disconsolate;
O Mary dear, that you were here!
ESTE, September, 1818.
PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES.
LISTEN, listen, Mary mine,
May 4th, 1818.
ON A FADED VIOLET.
The colour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me; The odour from the flower is flown,
Which breathed of thee and only thee !
A withered, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
With cold and silent rest.
I weep—my tears revive it not ;
I sigh-it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be.
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might: The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion, How sweet ! did any heart now share in my
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
in meditation found,
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround;
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care