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And I would lie so light, so light,
A trifle, sweet! which true love spells —
True love interprets — right alone.
For all the spirit is his own.
You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth,
And makes me talk too much in age.
And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart: So sing that other song I made,
Half-angered with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade
I found the blue Forget-me-not.
Love that hath us in the net,
Many suns arise and set.
Ah, no! no!
Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life,
Look through my very soul with thine! Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes forever dwell! They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.
Yet tears they shed: they had their part
The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type,
Tliat into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before;
Although the loss that brought us pain,
With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss,
The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find.
Arise, and let us wander forth
To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north,
Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass,
Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.
0 Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
Last night I wasted hateful hours
I crushed them on my breast, my mouth:
Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shivered in my narrow frame.
Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow.
v. The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is poured upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire;