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That stays upon thee? For in thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing single;Like two streams of incense free

From one censer, in one shrine,
Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as though They were modulated so
To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep
Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleanore?

I stand before thee, Eleanore;

I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
Daily and hourly, more and more.
I muse, as in a trance, the while

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold,
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile.
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er

The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore!

Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awakened, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpowered quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light:

As though a star, in inmost heaven set, Even while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain

Fixed—then as slowly fade again,

And draw itself to what it was before;
So full, so deep, so slow,
Thought seems to come and go
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore.

As thunderclouds that, hung on high,

Roofed the world with doubt and fear,
Floating through an evening atmosphere,
Grow golden all about the sky;
In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touched by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation,
Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation:
As waves that up a quiet cove
Rolling slide, and lying still

Shadow forth the banks at will;
Or sometimes they swell and move,
Pressing up against the land,
With motions of the outer sea:
And the selfsame influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.
His bowstring slackened, languid Love,
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding the<
And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleanore.

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,
While the amorous, odorous wind

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon;
Or, in a shadowy saloon,
On silken cushions half reclined;

I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,
While I muse upon thy face*,

And a languid fire creeps
Through my veins to all my frame,
Dissolvingly and slowly: soon,

From thy rose-red lips MY name
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,

With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my color, I lose my breath,
I drink the cup of a costly death,
Brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life.
I die with my delight, before

I hear what I would hear from thee;
Yet tell my name again to me.
I would be dying evermore,
So dying ever, Eleanore.


I See the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget

The busy wrinkles round his eyes?
The slow wise smile that, round about

His dusty forehead dryly curled,
Seemed half-within and half-without,

And full of dealings with the world?

In yonder chair I see him sit,

Three fingers round the old silver cup—
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest—gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad,
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,

His memory scarce can make me sad.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by.
There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the selfsame day.

Have I not found a happy earth?

I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth

I'd almost live my life again.
So sweet it seems with thee to walk,

And once again to woo thee mine—
It seems in after-dinner talk

Across the walnuts and the wine—

To be the long and listless boy

Late left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high

Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you

Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken through

By some wild skylark's matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan;
But ere I saw your eyes, my love,

I had no motion of my own.
For scarce my life with fancy played

Before I dreamed that pleasant dream— Still hither thither idly swayed Like those long mosses in the stream.

Or from the bridge I leaned to hear
The mill-dam rushing down with noise,

And see the minnows everywhere
In crystal eddies glance and poise,

The tall flag-flowers, when they sprung

Below the range of stepping stones, And those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones.

But, Alice, what an hour was that,

When, after roving in the woods, ('Twas April then,) I came and sat

Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue;

And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you,

But angled in the higher pool.

A love-song I had somewhere read,

An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head

From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long,

With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song,

That went and came a thousand times.

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood

I watched the little circles die; They past into the level flood,

And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form,

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm

Within the dark and dimpled beck.

For you remember, you had set,

That morning, on the casement's edge A long green box of mignonette,

And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above

They met with two so full and bright— Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light.

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