CXXIII There rolls the deep where grew the tree. There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; [From Maud, Part I, xviii] I I have led her home, my love, my only friend. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, None like her, none. II Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk 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. III 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, Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And over whom thy darkness must have spread With such delight as theirs of old, thy great Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. IV Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, And you fair stars that crown a happy day 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 A sad astrology, the boundless plan That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand V But now shine on, and what care I, Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl VI Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. VII Not die; but live a life of truest breath, Maud made my Maud by that long loving 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." VIII Is that enchanted moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? My own heart's heart, my ownest own, farewell; And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow Of your soft splendours that you look so bright? I have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe That seems to draw-but it shall not be so: THE BROOK I come from haunts of coot and hern, By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow I chatter over stony ways, With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, And here and there a foamy flake With many a silvery waterbreak |