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And in their double love secure,
These three made unity so sweet,
I blest them, and they wandered on:
A second voice was at mine ear,
As from some blissful neighborhood,
A little hint to solace woe,
Like an Æolian harp that wakes
Such seemed the whisper at my side: "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried.
“A hidden hope," the voice replied:
So heavenly-toned, that in that hour
To feel, although no tongue can prove,
And forth into the fields I went,
I wondered at the bounteous hours,
I wondered, while I paced along
So variously seemed all things wrought,
And wherefore rather I made choice
O, LADY FLORA, let me speak:
I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming—and, behind,
A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last
Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past,
And loosely settled into form.
And would you have the thought I had,
Nor look with that too-earnest eyeThe rhymes are dazzled from their place, And ordered, words asunder fly.
THE SLEEPING PALACE.
The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf,
Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled,
Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb.
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:
In these, in those the life is stayed. The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings.
More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall.
Here sits the Butler with a flask
Between his krees, half-drained; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honor blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are severed as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss:
The blush is fixed upon her cheek.
Till all the hundred summers pass,
The beams, that through the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass,
And beaker brimmed with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps,
Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps.
He must have been a jovial king.
All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
And grapes with bunches red as blood;
Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen,
High up, the topmost palace-spire.
When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,
Bring truth that sways the soul of men?
As all were ordered, ages since.
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her trancéd form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.
The silk star-broidered coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward rolled, Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm
With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.
She sleeps her breathings are not heard
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
All precious things, discovered late,
To those that seek them issue forth; For love in sequel works with fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies—
His mantle glitters on the rocks