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The secret bridal chambers of the heart, Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end.

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewellsOf that which came between, more sweet than

each,

In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale-in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, 250 Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, And vows, where there was never need of

Vows,

And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting

stars;

260

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the river-shores, And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent

On that veil'd picture-veil'd, for what it
holds

May not be dwelt on by the common day.
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy

soul;

Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the

time

Is come to raise the veil.

Behold her there,

As I beheld her ere she knew my heart,
My first, last love; the idol of my youth,
The darling of my manhood, and, alas!
Now the most blessed memory of mine age.
1842.
Lord Tennyson.

270

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

WHERE the quiet-colored end of evening smiles Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop

As they crop

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

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Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far

Peace or war.

Now, the country does not even boast a tree,

As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills

12

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

Into one.)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,

Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone-

24

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of

shame

Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

Now, the single little turret that remains
On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom

winks

Through the chinks

36

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient

time

Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eve
Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray
Melt away-

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

Till I come.

60

But he looked upon the city, every side,

Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the grades'

Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,-and then,

All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will

stand,

On my

Either hand

shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech

Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth

South and North,

And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,

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Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full forceGold, of course.

Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!

Earth's returns

For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,

With their triumphs and their glories and the

rest!

1855.

Love is best.

Robert Browning.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER

I SEE the wealthy miller yet,,
His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget
The busy wrinkles round his eyes?

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