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Morn broadened on the borders of the dark,
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.
No memory labors longer from the deep
Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er
Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain
As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,
Because all words, though culled with choicest art,
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart
O SWEET pale Margaret,
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
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,
Laid by the tumult of the fight.
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?
A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,
Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes,
You are not less divine, But more human in your moods,
Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes
Touched with a somewhat darker hue,
But ever trembling through the dew
O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret,
Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn,
Look out below your bower-eaves,
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,
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.
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
Old year, you must not die;
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love,
So long as you have been with us,
He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
He was full of joke and jest,