Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs Through the shadow of the globe we There the passions, cramped no longer, O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit (1850. Proem of CANTO SIXTH) Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said, Then they praised him, soft and low, Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Rose a nurse of ninety years, Like summer tempest came her tears: "Sweet my child, I live for thee." (1850. Proem of CANTO SEVENTH) 40 5 10 15 Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me. |