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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 self-same influence
Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.
His bow-string slackened, languid Love,
Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,
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 drily 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 cupI 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 self-same 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 milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere

In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers, where 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, ('T was 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.

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