« EelmineJätka »
That stays upon thee? For in thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free
From one censer, in one shrine,
Thought and motion mingle,
To an unheard melody,
Of richest pauses, evermore
Who may express thee, Eleanore ?
I stand before thee, Eleänore;
I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
Slowly, as from a cloud of gold,
The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were
So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore !
Sometimes, with most intensity
Fixed—then as slowly fade again,
And draw itself to what it was before;
So full, so deep, so slow,
Thought seems to come and go
As thunderclouds that, hung on high,
Roofed the world with doubt and fear,
In a silent meditation,
And luxury of contemplation:
Rolling slide, and lying still
Shadow forth the banks at will;
Pressing up against the land,
And the selfsame influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Fleänore. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind
Breathes low between the sunset and the moon;
Or, in a shadowy saloon,
I watch thy grace; and in its place
And a languid fire creeps
Through my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly: soon,
From thy rose-red lips My name Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon,
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight,
Yet tell my name again to me.
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
I SEE the wealthy miller yet,
His double chin, his portly size,
The busy wrinkles round his eyes ?
His dusty forehead dryly curled,
And full of dealings with the world ?
In yonder chair I see him sit,
Three fingers round the old silver cup-
At his own jest-gray eyes lit up
So full of summer warmth, so glad,
His memory scarce can make me sad.
Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss :
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the selfsame day.
Have I not found a happy earth?
I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth
I'd almost live my life again.
And once again to woo thee mine-
Across the walnuts and the wine
To be the long and listless boy
Late left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high
Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you
Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken through
By some wild skylark's matin song.
And oft I heard the tender dove
In firry woodlands making moan;
I had no motion of my own.
Before I dreamed that pleasant dreamStill hither thither idly swayed
Like those long mosses in the stream.
Or from the bridge I leaned to hear
The mill-dam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere
In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers, when they sprung
Below the range of stepping stones, And those three chestnuts near, that hung
In masses thick with milky cones.
But, Alice, what an hour was that,
When, after roving in the woods, ('Twas April then,) I came and sat
Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue;
And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you,
But angled in the higher pool.
A love-song I had somewhere read,
An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head
From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long,
With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song,
That went and came a thousand times.
Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood
I watched the little circles die; They past into the level flood,
And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form,
A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm
Within the dark and dimpled beck.
For you remember, you had set,
That morning, on the casement's edge A long green box of mignonette,
And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above
They met with two so full and brightSuch eyes! I swear to you, my love,
That these have never lost their light,