Death clutches at my darling now and then, And leaves a scar, or plucks a tress of hair;
Except these flights of song, I nothing have, As consolation for thy absence, Dear;
Sometimes when loitering by the bitter shore Where brood the shadows of the things to be,
To be forever thus alone with thee, Thus locked and fettered in thy tender arms,
Oh! what a hollow and a bootless thing Is human life, to sum it all in all,
A noble woman! One who can forgive, Without descending from her native height,
The waves of busy life that whirling go Through thy long streets, O city of my birth,
La transparente luz del mediodía filtraba por los bordes paralelos
Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!
This comfort only have I in my woes,-- To feed my heart upon thy pictured face,
Night takes the scepter from the hand of day, And sets her drowsy stars about the world;
Another picture of my Love I have, Painted in colors that will never fade-
This is a sorry ending to a thing We once called love, in our fatuity,
"I write too coldly and I write too much!"
The more, the colder seems whate'er I write,
I but half uttered what I purposed, dear: I should have said that if divided grief
Within this realm, sweet Lady, thou art queen-- Queen? Goddess, rather; for upon thy will
Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth, Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind,
Lear and Cordelia! 't was an ancient tale Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame:
Like to an aged poet who reviews An early volume, once his secret pride,
When first I met thee, as thou know 'st, I stood Dumb and abashed beneath thy splendid eyes;
Her nose is not the rigid Phidian line, From tip straight upward to the low-grown hair,
As here I sit and dally with the pen That daily sins against thy loveliness,
Absence from thee is something worse than death; For to the heart that slumbers in the shroud,
I never wished for wings as yesternight, When my imprisoned darling sadly came
To say my Love is beautiful, to praise The penciled arches of her ivory brow,
I know, O Lord, the summer fields are green, And the rich splendor of the summer air
Such of her beauties as the world may see, Whose eyes escort her eagerly around,
I do not merit it that thou shouldst stir A step beyond the coldness of the shrine
Look how the golden ocean shines above Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth;
Heavy and dark, with gusts of spiteful snow, The moody moments of today lagged by;
|
|