Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny That one who through this middle earth glades should pass Were full of pestilent light; our taintless Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave His name upon the harp-string, should achieve rills Seem'd sooty, and o'erspread with upturn'd Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown In little journeys, I beheld in it 700 A disguised demon, missioned to knit Therefore I eager follow'd, and did curse nurse, Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle The gentle heart, as northern blasts do These things, with all their comfortings, And then the ballad of his sad life closes She said with trembling chance: 'Is this Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a the cause? This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas! trace, A tinting of its quality: how light Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them! Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot; 790 Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit, For nothing but a dream?' Hereat the Into a sort of oneness, and our state 760 youth Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. 6 Peona! ever have I long'd to slake My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base, 770 No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace Is like a floating spirit's. But there are Upon the forehead of humanity. 801 All its more ponderous and bulky worth The stubborn canvas for my voyage pre- Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 810 Nor with aught else can our souls interknit Though now 't is tatter'd; leaving my bark So wingedly: when we combine therewith, Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith, van Of all the congregated world, to fan ness: For I have ever thought that it might bless How tiptoe Night holds back her darkgray hood. Just so may love, although 't is understood The mere commingling of passionate breath, Produce more than our searching witnesseth: What I know not: but who, of men, can tell That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, And meet so nearly, that with wings out raught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side. Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell, Far as the slabbed margin of a well, Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 870 The meadows runnels, runnels pebble- Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet Edges them round, and they have golden pits: 'T was there I got them, from the gaps and slits In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, When all above was faint with mid-day heat. And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, I'd bubble up the water through a reed; So reaching back to boyhood: make me ships 881 No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light For others, good or bad, hatred and Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled ? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 't is naught And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, |