XVIII. 1. I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. None like her, none. 2. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more; But even then I heard her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 3. There is none like her, none. Nor will be when our summers have deceased. O, art thou sighing for Lebanon In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, Sighing for Lebanon, Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, Upon a pastoral slope as fair, And looking to the South, and fed With honey'd rain and delicate air, And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And over whom thy darkness must have spread Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. 4. Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, And you fair stars that crown a happy day Go in and out as if at merry play, Who am no more so all forlorn, As when it seem'd far better to be born To labour and the mattock-harden'd hand, Than nursed at ease and brought to understand That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand His nothingness into man. 5. But now shine on, and what care I, Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl The countercharm of space and hollow sky, To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 6. Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give More life to Love than is or ever was In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. It seems that I am happy, that to me A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 7. Not die; but live a life of truest breath, Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss, Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 'The dusky strand of Death inwoven here With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear.' 8. Is that enchanted moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? And hark the clock within, the silver knell Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, But now by this my love has closed her sight Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. My own heart's heart and ownest own farewell; |