With bridal flowers-that I may seem, It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise With her laughter or her sighs, A trifle, sweet! which true love spells- For all the spirit is his own. You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, While Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart: So sing that other song I made, Half-anger'd with my happy lot, Love that hath us in the net, Love is hurt with jar and fret. Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear - who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. FATIMA. O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might! I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers: |