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That stays upon thee? For in thee
From one censer, in one shrine,
I stand before thee, Eleanore;
I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
Slowly, as from a cloud of gold,
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;
As thunderclouds that, hung on high,
Roofed the world with doubt and fear,
In a silent meditation,
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;
I watch thy grace; and in its place
And a languid fire creeps
From thy rose-red lips MY name
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
I hear what I would hear from thee;
THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
I See the wealthy miller yet,
His double chin, his portly size,
The busy wrinkles round his eyes?
His dusty forehead dryly curled,
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,
His memory scarce can make me sad.
Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
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.
And once again to woo thee mine—
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
And see the minnows everywhere
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.