Classic Poem

Who hath not seen my love? Her violet eyes
Like morning blooms awake, and, all aglow,
The heav'nly fruitage yet untasted lies
On the full lip which swells and smiles below.
The movements of her noiseless feet keep time
To tremulous music of a world-old song
Which all the Hours do breathe into her ear;
And many, many languish in their prime,
For hopeless love of her who hath been long
My chiefest joy through the full-seasoned year.

Be not too boist'rous, or to free to take
Those curls into thy lap, O Summer wind!
But, ever gently, let the faint breeze make
Cool places for her midst the leaves, or find
Some dome-like cloud to hide her from the sun.
And, Winter Solstice, when you draw anear,
Breathe not too rudely on her tender form —
Ah, make not chill my love! for she hath won
My very soul from me, and I do fear
The rash snow-wreathing, and the heedless storm!

Who hath not seen my love? Ye twining flow'rs,
I know she hath been with you, for you droop,
And pine for her fond presence, and the hours
Seem dull and dark when she no more doth stoop
To kiss away the dew-drops from each lip;
And, O sad streamlets, tell me why ye mourn!
Mayhap it is for lack of those twin feet
Which she all carelessly is wont to dip,
And lave within your flood at eve's return,
When love's hours run to moments swift and sweet.

Mayhap ye grieve for her divided care —
(O fondest care which e'er did grace the earth!)
Yet still ye seem not unto her less fair,
Though love hath come to quiet down her mirth.
And, though sweet fancy flees your wanderings,
And lurks in love's own world within, and fears
And hopes new-born within her bosom swell,
Yet ev'ry lucent, dew-clad morning brings
Its cool delight, and, list'ning, still she hears
The vestal Nature hymning in her cell.

Here let me linger by my love's own stream,
And gaze into the water where it frets
In endless monotone, till, in a dream,
It slips away with me, and quite forgets
Its ancient haunts amid the peaceful woods.
Then, in another land, my love with me
Will sit and sing old summer-songs of youth
By its green banks, and take the amber floods
Of sunset, or the silence of the sea
To witness our firm oaths and plighted truth.

Yea, though she loved me not, still would I bring
A vision of her beauty to the mead,
Midst hummings soft, and music on the wing,
And daisies huddling with the tangled weed.
Still would I place pale blossoms in her hair,
And, in her lap, moist lillies, white and wan,
And meadow-sweet which rarest scent distils.
And all the wilds would know that she was there,
For I would call her name till Echo ran
From vale to vale, far-questioning the hills.

I ask not how this pleasing fondness came
Into my heart, and yet, for many a time,
I have been mirthful at love's very name,
Who now, alas! am vanquished ere my prime.
I ask not. 'Tis enough for me to feel
The quick pulse throbbing and the hastened breath,
When all the soul-fed brightness of her eyes
Doth gleam upon me: then my senses steal
Away from me, as from some saint who saith
Deep pray'rs, or maketh holy sacrifice.

O that the twinkling eve were come again,
To feed with dew the soft melodious leaves,
And wake the nodding primrose which hath lain
For hours and hours unseen, like one who weaves
Forever his day-dreams and sits apart.
So to my love's own bower might I repair,
Where she, in slumber and sweet fancies wreathing,
Doth steal all beauty from the night — and there
Be mute, and still the beatings of my heart,
And kneel and listen to her quiet breathing.

Ay, I will listen while the wan stars wheel
Along the dusk, and watch each cloudy lid
Of thine, my love, until thou dost reveal
Those clearer planets which beneath lie hid.
Then wilt thou place thy paly cheek to mine,
And feel the sadness of love's ecstacy,
And I will kiss away thy painless tears.
Ah, closer, closer, may our thoughts entwine
This night, sweet love, this night while you and I
Make patient promise for the future years.