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That stays upon thee? For in thee
From one censer, in one shrine,
To an unheard melody,
I stand before thee, Eleänore;
I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
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 Eleänore!
Sometimes, with most intensity
Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep,
As though a star, in inmost heaven set,
Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow
Fixed-then as slowly fade again,
And draw itself to what it was before;
As thunderclouds that, hung on high,
Roofed the world with doubt and fear,
And luxury of contemplation:
Shadow forth the banks at will;
But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,
Breathes low between the sunset and the moon;
On silken cushions half reclined;
I watch thy grace; and in its place
And a languid fire creeps
From thy rose-red lips мY name
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;
I would be dying evermore,
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
I SEE the wealthy miller yet,
And full of dealings with the world?
In yonder chair I see him sit,
Three fingers round the old silver cup—
At his own jest gray eyes lit up
So full of summer warmth, so glad,
Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
There's somewhat in this world amiss
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 mineIt 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;
I had no motion of my own.
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
In crystal eddies glance and poise,
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,
From some odd corner of the brain.
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 brightSuch eyes! I swear to you, my love,
That these have never lost their light.