LXVII. Morn broadened on the borders of the dark, LXVIII. Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. LXIX. No memory labors longer from the deep LXX. Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain LXXI. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, In yearnings that can never be exprest LXXII. Because all words, though culled with choicest art, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart MARGARET. O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as though you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, Of dainty sorrow without sound, You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lulled echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking through his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, A fairy shield your Genius made Than your twin-sister, Adeline. But ever trembling through the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your dawn Upon me through the jasmine-leaves. THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park: The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, though I spared thee all the spring, A golden bill! the silver tongue, And in the sultry garden-squares, young: Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. I. FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And tread softly and speak low, Old year, you must not die; II. He lieth still: he doth not move: He bath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love So long as you have been with us, III. He frothed his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, IV. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. |