

Transcribed from the 1908 Burns and Oates edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]





                               SISTER SONGS
                       _An Offering to Two Sisters_


                                   _BY_
                             FRANCIS THOMPSON

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                              BURNS & OATES
                            28, ORCHARD STREET
                             LONDON, W.: 1908




PREFACE


THIS poem, though new in the sense of being now for the first time
printed, was written some four years ago, about the same date as the
_Hound of Heaven_ in my former volume.

One image in the _Proem_ was an unconscious plagiarism from the beautiful
image in Mr. Patmore’s _St. Valentine’s Day_:—

    “O baby Spring,
    That flutter’st sudden ’neath the breast of Earth,
    A month before the birth!”

Finding I could not disengage it without injury to the passage in which
it is embedded, I have preferred to leave it, with this acknowledgment to
a Poet rich enough to lend to the poor.

                                                         FRANCIS THOMPSON.

1895.

                                * * * * *

                                   _To_
                   Monica and Madeline (Sylvia) Meynell

                                * * * * *




SISTER SONGS
An Offering to Two Sisters


The Proem


   SHREWD winds and shrill—were these the speech of May?
      A ragged, slag-grey sky—invested so,
      Mary’s spoilt nursling! wert thou wont to go?
         Or _thou_, Sun-god and song-god, say
   Could singer pipe one tiniest linnet-lay,
      While Song did turn away his face from song?
            Or who could be
      In spirit or in body hale for long,—
         Old Æsculap’s best Master!—lacking thee?
            At length, then, thou art here!
            On the earth’s lethèd ear
      Thy voice of light rings out exultant, strong;
   Through dreams she stirs and murmurs at that summons dear:
         From its red leash my heart strains tamelessly,
   For Spring leaps in the womb of the young year!
         Nay, was it not brought forth before,
            And we waited, to behold it,
            Till the sun’s hand should unfold it,
         What the year’s young bosom bore?
   Even so; it came, nor knew we that it came,
            In the sun’s eclipse.
         Yet the birds have plighted vows,
   And from the branches pipe each other’s name;
         Yet the season all the boughs
         Has kindled to the finger-tips,—
   Mark yonder, how the long laburnum drips
   Its jocund spilth of fire, its honey of wild flame!
   Yea, and myself put on swift quickening,
   And answer to the presence of a sudden Spring.
   From cloud-zoned pinnacles of the secret spirit
      Song falls precipitant in dizzying streams;
   And, like a mountain-hold when war-shouts stir it,
   The mind’s recessèd fastness casts to light
   Its gleaming multitudes, that from every height
      Unfurl the flaming of a thousand dreams.
   Now therefore, thou who bring’st the year to birth,
      Who guid’st the bare and dabbled feet of May;
   Sweet stem to that rose Christ, who from the earth
   Suck’st our poor prayers, conveying them to Him;
      Be aidant, tender Lady, to my lay!
      Of thy two maidens somewhat must I say,
   Ere shadowy twilight lashes, drooping, dim
               Day’s dreamy eyes from us;
               Ere eve has struck and furled
   The beamy-textured tent transpicuous,
      Of webbèd coerule wrought and woven calms,
         Whence has paced forth the lambent-footed sun.
   And Thou disclose my flower of song upcurled,
         Who from Thy fair irradiant palms
      Scatterest all love and loveliness as alms;
               Yea, Holy One,
   Who coin’st Thyself to beauty for the world!

   _Then_, _Spring’s little children_, _your lauds do ye upraise_
   _To Sylvia_, _O Sylvia_, _her sweet_, _feat ways_!
      _Your lovesome labours lay away_,
      _And trick you out in holiday_,
               _For syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _And all you birds on branches_, _lave your mouths with May_,
      _To bear with me this burthen_,
               _For singing to Sylvia_.



Part the First


   THE leaves dance, the leaves sing,
   The leaves dance in the breath of the Spring.
            I bid them dance,
               I bid them sing,
            For the limpid glance
               Of my ladyling;
   For the gift to the Spring of a dewier spring,
   For God’s good grace of this ladyling!
   I know in the lane, by the hedgerow track,
      The long, broad grasses underneath
   Are warted with rain like a toad’s knobbed back;
      But here May weareth a rainless wreath.
   In the new-sucked milk of the sun’s bosom
   Is dabbled the mouth of the daisy-blossom;
      The smouldering rosebud chars through its sheath;
   The lily stirs her snowy limbs,
            Ere she swims
   Naked up through her cloven green,
   Like the wave-born Lady of Love Hellene;
   And the scattered snowdrop exquisite
            Twinkles and gleams,
      As if the showers of the sunny beams
   Were splashed from the earth in drops of light.
            Everything
            That is child of Spring
      Casts its bud or blossoming
   Upon the stream of my delight.

   _Their voices_, _that scents are_, _now let them upraise_
   _To Sylvia_, _O Sylvia_, _her sweet_, _feat ways_!
      _Their lovely mother them array_,
      _And prank them out in holiday_,
               _For syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _And all the birds on branches lave their mouths with May_,
      _To bear with me this burthen_,
         _For singing to Sylvia_.


2.


   While thus I stood in mazes bound
      Of vernal sorcery,
   I heard a dainty dubious sound,
      As of goodly melody;
   Which first was faint as if in swound,
      Then burst so suddenly
   In warring concord all around,
      That, whence this thing might be,
                  To see
   The very marrow longed in me!
      It seemed of air, it seemed of ground,
         And never any witchery
      Drawn from pipe, or reed, or string,
      Made such dulcet ravishing.
      ’Twas like no earthly instrument,
      Yet had something of them all
      In its rise, and in its fall;
   As if in one sweet consort there were blent
      Those archetypes celestial
   Which our endeavouring instruments recall.
      So heavenly flutes made murmurous plain
      To heavenly viols, that again
      —Aching with music—wailed back pain;
      Regals release their notes, which rise
      Welling, like tears from heart to eyes;
      And the harp thrills with thronging sighs.
      Horns in mellow flattering
      Parley with the cithern-string:—
      Hark!—the floating, long-drawn note
      Woos the throbbing cithern-string!

   _Their pretty_, _pretty prating those citherns sure upraise_
   _For homage unto Sylvia_, _her sweet_, _feat ways_:
      _Those flutes do flute their vowelled lay_,
      _Their lovely languid language say_,
         _For lisping to Sylvia_;
   _Those viols’ lissom bowings break the heart of May_,
      _And harps harp their burthen_,
         _For singing to Sylvia_.


3.


      Now at that music and that mirth
      Rose, as ’twere, veils from earth;
            And I spied
            How beside
      Bud, bell, bloom, an elf
      Stood, or was the flower itself
            ’Mid radiant air
            All the fair
      Frequence swayed in irised wavers.
      Some against the gleaming rims
      Their bosoms prest
      Of the kingcups, to the brims
      Filled with sun, and their white limbs
      Bathèd in those golden lavers;
      Some on the brown, glowing breast
      Of that Indian maid, the <DW29>,
      (Through its tenuous veils confest
      Of swathing light), in a quaint fancy
      Tied her knot of yellow favours;
      Others dared open draw
      Snapdragon’s dreadful jaw:
      Some, just sprung from out the soil,
      Sleeked and shook their rumpled fans
         Dropt with sheen
            Of moony green;
      Others, not yet extricate,
      On their hands leaned their weight,
      And writhed them free with mickle toil,
      Still folded in their veiny vans:
      And all with an unsought accord
      Sang together from the sward;
      Whence had come, and from sprites
      Yet unseen, those delights,
      As of tempered musics blent,
      Which had given me such content.
      For haply our best instrument,
      Pipe or cithern, stopped or strung,
      Mimics but some spirit tongue.

   _Their amiable voices_, _I bid them upraise_
   _To Sylvia_, _O Sylvia_, _her sweet_, _feat ways_;
      _Their lovesome labours laid away_,
      _To linger out this holiday_
            _In syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _While all the birds on branches lave their mouths with May_,
   _To bear with me this burthen_,
         _For singing to Sylvia_.


4.


      Next I saw, wonder-whist,
      How from the atmosphere a mist,
      So it seemed, slow uprist;
      And, looking from those elfin swarms,
            I was ’ware
            How the air
      Was all populous with forms
      Of the Hours, floating down,
      Like Nereids through a watery town.
      Some, with languors of waved arms,
      Fluctuous oared their flexile way;
      Some were borne half resupine
   On the aërial hyaline,
   Their fluid limbs and rare array
   Flickering on the wind, as quivers
   Trailing weed in running rivers;
   And others, in far prospect seen,
   Newly loosed on this terrene,
      Shot in piercing swiftness came,
      With hair a-stream like pale and goblin flame.
      As crystálline ice in water,
      Lay in air each faint daughter;
      Inseparate (or but separate dim)
      Circumfused wind from wind-like vest,
      Wind-like vest from wind-like limb.
      But outward from each lucid breast,
      When some passion left its haunt,
      Radiate surge of colour came,
      Diffusing blush-wise, palpitant,
      Dying all the filmy frame.
      With some sweet tenderness they would
   Turn to an amber-clear and glossy gold;
      Or a fine sorrow, lovely to behold,
   Would sweep them as the sun and wind’s joined flood
      Sweeps a greening-sapphire sea;
      Or they would glow enamouredly
   Illustrious sanguine, like a grape of blood;
   Or with mantling poetry
   Curd to the tincture which the opal hath,
   Like rainbows thawing in a moonbeam bath.
   So paled they, flushed they, swam they, sang melodiously.

   _Their chanting_, _soon fading_, _let them_, _too_, _upraise_
   _For homage unto Sylvia_, _her sweet_, _feat ways_;
      _Weave with suave float their wavèd way_,
      _And colours take of holiday_,
            _For syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _And all the birds on branches lave their mouths with May_,
      _To bear with me this burthen_,
            _For singing to Sylvia_.


5.


      Then, through those translucencies,
      As grew my senses clearer clear,
      Did I see, and did I hear,
      How under an elm’s canopy
      Wheeled a flight of Dryades
      Murmuring measured melody.
      Gyre in gyre their treading was,
      Wheeling with an adverse flight,
      In twi-circle o’er the grass,
      These to left, and those to right;
               All the band
      Linkèd by each other’s hand;
      Decked in raiment stainèd as
      The blue-helmèd aconite.
      And they advance with flutter, with grace,
               To the dance
      Moving on with a dainty pace,
      As blossoms mince it on river swells.
      Over their heads their cymbals shine,
      Round each ankle gleams a twine
               Of twinkling bells—
      Tune twirled golden from their cells.
      Every step was a tinkling sound,
      As they glanced in their dancing-ground,
      Clouds in cluster with such a sailing
      Float o’er the light of the wasting moon,
      As the cloud of their gliding veiling
      Swung in the sway of the dancing-tune.
      There was the clash of their cymbals clanging,
      Ringing of swinging bells clinging their feet;
      And the clang on wing it seemed a-hanging,
      Hovering round their dancing so fleet.—
      I stirred, I rustled more than meet;
      Whereat they broke to the left and right,
      With eddying robes like aconite
               Blue of helm;
      And I beheld to the foot o’ the elm.

   _They have not tripped those dances_, _betrayed to my gaze_,
   _To glad the heart of Sylvia_, _beholding of their maze_;
      _Through barky walls have slid away_,
      _And tricked them in their holiday_,
         _For other than for Sylvia_;
   _While all the birds on branches lave their mouths with May_,
      _And bear with me this burthen_,
         _For singing to Sylvia_.


6.


      Where its umbrage was enrooted,
            Sat white-suited,
      Sat green-amiced, and bare-footed,
         Spring amid her minstrelsy;
      There she sat amid her ladies,
            Where the shade is
      Sheen as Enna mead ere Hades’
         Gloom fell thwart Persephone.
      Dewy buds were interstrown
      Through her tresses hanging down,
            And her feet
            Were most sweet,
      Tinged like sea-stars, rosied brown.
   A throng of children like to flowers were sown
   About the grass beside, or clomb her knee:
   I looked who were that favoured company.
            And one there stood
            Against the beamy flood
   Of sinking day, which, pouring its abundance,
   Sublimed the illuminous and volute redundance
   Of locks that, half dissolving, floated round her face;
            As see I might
      Far off a lily-cluster poised in sun
         Dispread its gracile curls of light
      I knew what chosen child was there in place!
      I knew there might no brows be, save of one,
      With such Hesperian fulgence compassèd,
   Which in her moving seemed to wheel about her head.

   _O Spring’s little children_, _more loud your lauds upraise_,
   _For this is even Sylvia_, _with her sweet_, _feat ways_!
      _Your lovesome labours lay away_,
      _And prank you out in holiday_,
            _For syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _And all you birds on branches_, _lave your mouths with May_,
         _To bear with me this burthen_
            _For singing to Sylvia_!


7.


   Spring, goddess, is it thou, desirèd long?
   And art thou girded round with this young train?—
   If ever I did do thee ease in song,
   Now of thy grace let me one meed obtain,
            And list thou to one plain.
            Oh, keep still in thy train
   After the years when others therefrom fade,
         This tiny, well-belovèd maid!
   To whom the gate of my heart’s fortalice,
            With all which in it is,
   And the shy self who doth therein immew him
   ’Gainst what loud leagurers battailously woo him,
            I, bribèd traitor to him,
            Set open for one kiss.

   _Then suffer_, _Spring_, _thy children_, _that lauds they should
   upraise_
   _To Sylvia_, _this Sylvia_, _her sweet_, _feat ways_;
      _Their lovely labours lay away_,
      _And trick them out in holiday_,
            _For syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _And that all birds on branches lave their mouths with May_,
      _To bear with me this burthen_,
            _For singing to Sylvia_.


8.


               A kiss? for a child’s kiss?
               Aye, goddess, even for this.
      Once, bright Sylviola! in days not far,
   Once—in that nightmare-time which still doth haunt
   My dreams, a grim, unbidden visitant—
               Forlorn, and faint, and stark,
   I had endured through watches of the dark
      The abashless inquisition of each star,
   Yea, was the outcast mark
            Of all those heavenly passers’ scrutiny;
            Stood bound and helplessly
   For Time to shoot his barbèd minutes at me;
   Suffered the trampling hoof of every hour
            In night’s slow-wheelèd car;
      Until the tardy dawn dragged me at length
      From under those dread wheels; and, bled of strength,
         I waited the inevitable last.
            Then there came past
   A child; like thee, a spring-flower; but a flower
   Fallen from the budded coronal of Spring,
   And through the city-streets blown withering.
   She passed,—O brave, sad, lovingest, tender thing!—
   And of her own scant pittance did she give,
            That I might eat and live:
   Then fled, a swift and trackless fugitive.
            Therefore I kissed in thee
   The heart of Childhood, so divine for me;
         And her, through what sore ways,
         And what unchildish days,
   Borne from me now, as then, a trackless fugitive.
         Therefore I kissed in thee
         Her, child! and innocency,
   And spring, and all things that have gone from me,
         And that shall never be;
   All vanished hopes, and all most hopeless bliss,
         Came with thee to my kiss.
   And ah! so long myself had strayed afar
   From child, and woman, and the boon earth’s green,
   And all wherewith life’s face is fair beseen;
         Journeying its journey bare
   Five suns, except of the all-kissing sun
            Unkissed of one;
            Almost I had forgot
            The healing harms,
   And whitest witchery, a-lurk in that
   Authentic cestus of two girdling arms:
         And I remembered not
      The subtle sanctities which dart
   From childish lips’ unvalued precious brush,
   Nor how it makes the sudden lilies push
      Between the loosening fibres of the heart.
            Then, that thy little kiss
            Should be to me all this,
   Let workaday wisdom blink sage lids thereat;
   Which towers a flight three hedgerows high, poor bat!
      And straightway charts me out the empyreal air.
   Its chart I wing not by, its canon of worth
   Scorn not, nor reck though mine should breed it mirth:
   And howso thou and I may be disjoint,
   Yet still my falcon spirit makes her point
            Over the covert where
   Thou, sweetest quarry, hast put in from her!

   (_Soul_, _hush these sad numbers_, _too sad to upraise_
   _In hymning bright Sylvia_, _unlearn’d in such ways_!
      _Our mournful moods lay we away_,
      _And prank our thoughts in holiday_,
            _For syllabling to Sylvia_;
   _When all the birds on branches lave their mouths with May_,
      _To bear with us this burthen_,
            _For singing to Sylvia_!)


9.


   Then thus Spring, bounteous lady, made reply:
   “O lover of me and all my progeny,
            For grace to you
   I take her ever to my retinue.
   Over thy form, dear child, alas! my art
   Cannot prevail; but mine immortalising
            Touch I lay upon thy heart.
            Thy soul’s fair shape
   In my unfading mantle’s green I drape,
   And thy white mind shall rest by my devising
      A Gideon-fleece amid life’s dusty drouth.
   If Even burst yon globèd yellow grape
   (Which is the sun to mortals’ sealèd sight)
            Against her stainèd mouth;
            Or if white-handed light
   Draw thee yet dripping from the quiet pools,
            Still lucencies and cools,
   Of sleep, which all night mirror constellate dreams;
   Like to the sign which led the Israelite,
            Thy soul, through day or dark,
   A visible brightness on the chosen ark
         Of thy sweet body and pure,
               Shall it assure,
   With auspice large and tutelary gleams,
   Appointed solemn courts, and covenanted streams.”

   _Cease_, _Spring’s little children_, _now cease your lauds to raise_;
   _That dream is past_, _and Sylvia_, _with her sweet_, _feat ways_.
      _Our lovèd labour_, _laid away_,
      _Is smoothly ended_; _said our say_,
            _Our syllable to Sylvia_.
   _Make sweet_, _you birds on branches_! _make sweet your mouths with
   May_!
      _But borne is this burthen_,
               _Sung unto Sylvia_.



Part the Second


   AND now, thou elder nursling of the nest;
         Ere all the intertangled west
            Be one magnificence
   Of multitudinous blossoms that o’errun
   The flaming brazen bowl o’ the burnished sun
            Which they do flower from,
   How shall I ’stablish _thy_ memorial?
   Nay, how or with what countenance shall I come
            To plead in my defence
            For loving thee at all?
   I who can scarcely speak my fellows’ speech,
   Love their love, or mine own love to them teach;
   A bastard barred from their inheritance,
      Who seem, in this dim shape’s uneasy nook,
   Some sun-flower’s spirit which by luckless chance
      Has mournfully its tenement mistook;
   When it were better in its right abode,
   Heartless and happy lackeying its god.
   How com’st thou, little tender thing of white,
   Whose very touch full scantly me beseems,
   How com’st thou resting on my vaporous dreams,
      Kindling a wraith there of earth’s vernal green?
            Even so as I have seen,
      In night’s aërial sea with no wind blust’rous,
   A ribbèd tract of cloudy malachite
            Curve a shored crescent wide;
   And on its <DW72> marge shelving to the night
      The stranded moon lay quivering like a lustrous
         Medusa newly washed up from the tide,
   Lay in an oozy pool of its own deliquious light.

   Yet hear how my excuses may prevail,
      Nor, tender white orb, be thou opposite!
   Life and life’s beauty only hold their revels
   In the abysmal ocean’s luminous levels.
            There, like the phantasms of a poet pale,
   The exquisite marvels sail:
   Clarified silver; greens and azures frail
   As if the colours sighed themselves away,
   And blent in supersubtile interplay
      As if they swooned into each other’s arms;
            Repured vermilion,
            Like ear-tips ’gainst the sun;
   And beings that, under night’s swart pinion,
   Make every wave upon the harbour-bars
            A beaten yolk of stars.
   But where day’s glance turns baffled from the deeps,
            Die out those lovely swarms;
   And in the immense profound no creature glides or creeps.

   Love and love’s beauty only hold their revels
   In life’s familiar, penetrable levels:
            What of its ocean-floor?
            I dwell there evermore.
            From almost earliest youth
            I raised the lids o’ the truth,
   And forced her bend on me her shrinking sight;
   Ever I knew me Beauty’s eremite,
      In antre of this lowly body set.
         Girt with a thirsty solitude of soul.
            Nathless I not forget
   How I have, even as the anchorite,
      I too, imperishing essences that console.
   Under my ruined passions, fallen and sere,
      The wild dreams stir like little radiant girls,
   Whom in the moulted plumage of the year
      Their comrades sweet have buried to the curls.
   Yet, though their dedicated amorist,
   How often do I bid my visions hist,
      Deaf to them, pleading all their piteous fills;
   Who weep, as weep the maidens of the mist
      Clinging the necks of the unheeding hills:
   And their tears wash them lovelier than before,
   That from grief’s self our sad delight grows more,
   Fair are the soul’s uncrispèd calms, indeed,
      Endiapered with many a spiritual form
            Of blosmy-tinctured weed;
   But scarce itself is conscious of the store
      Suckled by it, and only after storm
   Casts up its loosened thoughts upon the shore.
         To this end my deeps are stirred;
         And I deem well why life unshared
         Was ordainèd me of yore.
         In pairing-time, we know, the bird
         Kindles to its deepmost splendour,
         And the tender
         Voice is tenderest in its throat;
         Were its love, for ever nigh it,
         Never by it,
         It might keep a vernal note,
         The crocean and amethystine
               In their pristine
            Lustre linger on its coat.
         Therefore must my song-bower lone be,
               That my tone be
            Fresh with dewy pain alway;
         She, who scorns my dearest care ta’en,
               An uncertain
            Shadow of the sprite of May.
         And is my song sweet, as they say?
   ’Tis sweet for one whose voice has no reply,
               Save silence’s sad cry:
   And are its plumes a burning bright array?
   They burn for an unincarnated eye
   A bubble, charioteered by the inward breath
      Which, ardorous for its own invisible lure,
   Urges me glittering to aërial death,
      I am rapt towards that bodiless paramour;
   Blindly the uncomprehended tyranny
      Obeying of my heart’s impetuous might.
         The earth and all its planetary kin,
   Starry buds tangled in the whirling hair
   That flames round the Phoebean wassailer,
      Speed no more ignorant, more predestined flight,
         Than I, _her_ viewless tresses netted in.
   As some most beautiful one, with lovely taunting,
   Her eyes of guileless guile o’ercanopies,
            Does her hid visage bow,
   And miserly your covetous gaze allow,
            By inchmeal, coy degrees,
            Saying—“Can you see me now?”
   Yet from the mouth’s reflex you guess the wanting
            Smile of the coming eyes
   In all their upturned grievous witcheries,
            Before that sunbreak rise;
   And each still hidden feature view within
   Your mind, as eager scrutinies detail
   The moon’s young rondure through the shamefast veil
         Drawn to her gleaming chin:
               After this wise,
   From the enticing smile of earth and skies
   I dream my unknown Fair’s refusèd gaze;
   And guessingly her love’s close traits devise,
         Which she with subtile coquetries
   Through little human glimpses slow displays,
            Cozening my mateless days
            By sick, intolerable delays.
   And so I keep mine uncompanioned ways;
   And so my touch, to golden poesies
   Turning love’s bread, is bought at hunger’s price.
   So,—in the inextinguishable wars
   Which roll song’s Orient on the sullen night
   Whose ragged banners in their own despite
   Take on the tinges of the hated light,—
   So Sultan Phoebus has his Janizars.
   But if mine unappeasèd cicatrices
            Might get them lawful ease;
   Were any gentle passion hallowed me,
      Who must none other breath of passion feel
      Save such as winnows to the fledgèd heel
         The tremulous Paradisal plumages;
         The conscious sacramental trees
               Which ever be
               Shaken celestially,
   Consentient with enamoured wings, might know my love for thee.
   Yet is there more, whereat none guesseth, love!
      Upon the ending of my deadly night
   (Whereof thou hast not the surmise, and slight
   Is all that any mortal knows thereof),
      Thou wert to me that earnest of day’s light,
   When, like the back of a gold-mailèd saurian
      Heaving its slow length from Nilotic slime,
   The first long gleaming fissure runs Aurorian
      Athwart the yet dun firmament of prime.
   Stretched on the margin of the cruel sea
            Whence they had rescued me,
      With faint and painful pulses was I lying;
            Not yet discerning well
   If I had ’scaped, or were an icicle,
            Whose thawing is its dying.
   Like one who sweats before a despot’s gate,
   Summoned by some presaging scroll of fate,
   And knows not whether kiss or dagger wait;
   And all so sickened is his countenance,
   The courtiers buzz, “Lo, doomed!” and look at him askance:—
            At Fate’s dread portal then
            Even so stood I, I ken,
   Even so stood I, between a joy and fear,
   And said to mine own heart, “Now if the end be here!”

         They say, Earth’s beauty seems completest
            To them that on their death-beds rest;
         Gentle lady! she smiles sweetest
            Just ere she clasp us to her breast.
   And I,—now _my_ Earth’s countenance grew bright,
   Did she but smile me towards that nuptial-night?
   But whileas on such dubious bed I lay,
                  One unforgotten day,
         As a sick child waking sees
            Wide-eyed daisies
         Gazing on it from its hand,
         Slipped there for its dear amazes;
         So between thy father’s knees
            I saw _thee_ stand,
            And through my hazes
   Of pain and fear thine eyes’ young wonder shone.
   Then, as flies scatter from a carrion,
      Or rooks in spreading gyres like broken smoke
      Wheel, when some sound their quietude has broke,
   Fled, at thy countenance, all that doubting spawn:
         The heart which I had questioned spoke,
   A cry impetuous from its depths was drawn,—
   “I take the omen of this face of dawn!”
   And with the omen to my heart cam’st thou.
            Even with a spray of tears
   That one light draft was fixed there for the years.

            And now?—
   The hours I tread ooze memories of thee, Sweet!
         Beneath my casual feet.
         With rainfall as the lea,
            The day is drenched with thee;
         In little exquisite surprises
   Bubbling deliciousness of thee arises
               From sudden places,
         Under the common traces
   Of my most lethargied and customed paces.

         As an Arab journeyeth
         Through a sand of Ayaman,
         Lean Thirst, lolling its cracked tongue,
         Lagging by his side along;
         And a rusty-wingèd Death
         Grating its low flight before,
         Casting ribbèd shadows o’er
         The blank desert, blank and tan:
   He lifts by hap toward where the morning’s roots are
               His weary stare,—
      Sees, although they plashless mutes are,
         Set in a silver air
      Fountains of gelid shoots are,
         Making the daylight fairest fair;
      Sees the palm and tamarind
   Tangle the tresses of a phantom wind;—
   A sight like innocence when one has sinned!
   A green and maiden freshness smiling there,
            While with unblinking glare
   The tawny-hided desert crouches watching her.

               ’Tis a vision:
         Yet the greeneries Elysian
         He has known in tracts afar;
         Thus the enamouring fountains flow,
         Those the very palms that grow,
   By rare-gummed Sava, or Herbalimar.—

         Such a watered dream has tarried
         Trembling on my desert arid;
               Even so
            Its lovely gleamings
               Seemings show
            Of things not seemings;
               And I gaze,
         Knowing that, beyond my ways,
               Verily
            All these _are_, for these are she.
         Eve no gentlier lays her cooling cheek
         On the burning brow of the sick earth,
            Sick with death, and sick with birth,
      Aeon to aeon, in secular fever twirled,
            Than thy shadow soothes this weak
            And distempered being of mine.
   In all I work, my hand includeth thine;
            Thou rushest down in every stream
   Whose passion frets my spirit’s deepening gorge;
   Unhood’st mine eyas-heart, and fliest my dream;
            Thou swing’st the hammers of my forge;
   As the innocent moon, that nothing does but shine,
   Moves all the labouring surges of the world.
      Pierce where thou wilt the springing thought in me,
   And there thy pictured countenance lies enfurled,
      As in the cut fern lies the imaged tree.
         This poor song that sings of thee,
      This fragile song, is but a curled
         Shell outgathered from thy sea,
      And murmurous still of its nativity.
               Princess of Smiles!
   Sorceress of most unlawful-lawful wiles!
         Cunning pit for gazers’ senses,
         Overstrewn with innocences!
         Purities gleam white like statues
         In the fair lakes of thine eyes,
         And I watch the sparkles that use
               There to rise,
               Knowing these
         Are bubbles from the calyces
         Of the lovely thoughts that breathe
   Paving, like water-flowers, thy spirit’s floor beneath.

               O thou most dear!
   Who art thy sex’s complex harmony
         God-set more facilely;
         To thee may love draw near
         Without one blame or fear,
   Unchidden save by his humility:
   Thou Perseus’ Shield! wherein I view secure
   The mirrored Woman’s fateful-fair allure!
   Whom Heaven still leaves a twofold dignity,
   As girlhood gentle, and as boyhood free;
   With whom no most diaphanous webs enwind
   The barèd limbs of the rebukeless mind.
   Wild Dryad! all unconscious of thy tree,
               With which indissolubly
   The tyrannous time shall one day make thee whole;
   Whose frank arms pass unfretted through its bole:
         Who wear’st thy femineity
   Light as entrailèd blossoms, that shalt find
   It erelong silver shackles unto thee.
   Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul;—
         As hoarded in the vine
   Hang the gold skins of undelirious wine,
   As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze:—
      In whom the mystery which lures and sunders,
         Grapples and thrusts apart; endears, estranges;
   —The dragon to its own Hesperides—
      Is gated under slow-revolving changes,
   Manifold doors of heavy-hingèd years.
      So once, ere Heaven’s eyes were filled with wonders
         To see Laughter rise from Tears,
         Lay in beauty not yet mighty,
            Conchèd in translucencies,
         The antenatal Aphrodite,
   Caved magically under magic seas;
   Caved dreamlessly beneath the dreamful seas.

            “Whose sex is in thy soul!”
            What think we of thy soul?
         Which has no parts, and cannot grow,
         Unfurled not from an embryo;
   Born of full stature, lineal to control;
      And yet a pigmy’s yoke must undergo.
   Yet must keep pace and tarry, patient, kind,
   With its unwilling scholar, the dull, tardy mind;
   Must be obsequious to the body’s powers,
   Whose low hands mete its paths, set ope and close its ways;
         Must do obeisance to the days,
   And wait the little pleasure of the hours;
      Yea, ripe for kingship, yet must be
   Captive in statuted minority!
   So is all power fulfilled, as soul in thee.
   So still the ruler by the ruled takes rule,
   And wisdom weaves itself i’ the loom o’ the fool.
   The splendent sun no splendour can display,
   Till on gross things he dash his broken ray,
   From cloud and tree and flower re-tossed in prismy spray.
   Did not obstruction’s vessel hem it in,
   Force were not force, would spill itself in vain
   We know the Titan by his champèd chain.
   Stay is heat’s cradle, it is rocked therein,
   And by check’s hand is burnished into light;
   If hate were none, would love burn lowlier bright?
   God’s Fair were guessed scarce but for opposite sin;
   Yea, and His Mercy, I do think it well,
   Is flashed back from the brazen gates of Hell.
            The heavens decree
   All power fulfil itself as soul in thee.
   For supreme Spirit subject was to clay,
      And Law from its own servants learned a law,
   And Light besought a lamp unto its way,
            And Awe was reined in awe,
         At one small house of Nazareth;
            And Golgotha
   Saw Breath to breathlessness resign its breath,
   And Life do homage for its crown to death.

   So is all power, as soul in thee increased!
      But, knowing this, in knowledge’s despite
      I fret against the law severe that stains
            Thy spirit with eclipse;
      When—as a nymph’s carven head sweet water drips,
      For others oozing so the cool delight
      Which cannot steep her stiffened mouth of stone—
   Thy nescient lips repeat maternal strains.
                  Memnonian lips!
   Smitten with singing from thy mother’s east,
      And murmurous with music not their own:
      Nay, the lips flexile, while the mind alone
            A passionless statue stands.
            Oh, pardon, innocent one!
         Pardon at thine unconscious hands!
   “Murmurous with music not their own,” I say?
   And in that saying how do I missay,
            When from the common sands
   Of poorest common speech of common day
   Thine accents sift the golden musics out!
         And ah, we poets, I misdoubt,
            Are little more than thou!
   We speak a lesson taught we know not how,
         And what it is that from us flows
   The hearer better than the utterer knows.

            Thou canst foreshape thy word;
            The poet is not lord
         Of the next syllable may come
         With the returning pendulum;
         And what he plans to-day in song,
   To-morrow sings it in another tongue.
         Where the last leaf fell from his bough,
         He knows not if a leaf shall grow,
         Where he sows he doth not reap,
         He reapeth where he did not sow;
         He sleeps, and dreams forsake his sleep
         To meet him on his waking way.
   Vision will mate him not by law and vow:
         Disguised in life’s most hodden-grey,
   By the most beaten road of everyday
   She waits him, unsuspected and unknown.
               The hardest pang whereon
   He lays his mutinous head may be a Jacob’s stone.
   In the most iron crag his foot can tread
               A Dream may strew her bed,
         And suddenly his limbs entwine,
   And draw him down through rock as sea-nymphs might through brine.
   But, unlike those feigned temptress-ladies who
   In guerdon of a night the lover slew,
   When the embrace has failed, the rapture fled,
   Not he, not he, the wild sweet witch is dead!
               And, though he cherisheth
   The babe most strangely born from out her death,
   Some tender trick of her it hath, maybe,—
                     It is not she!

   Yet, even as the air is rumorous of fray
      Before the first shafts of the sun’s onslaught
         From gloom’s black harness splinter,
         And Summer move on Winter
   With the trumpet of the March, and the pennon of the May;
         As gesture outstrips thought;
   So, haply, toyer with ethereal strings!
   Are thy blind repetitions of high things
   The murmurous gnats whose aimless hoverings
         Reveal song’s summer in the air;
   The outstretched hand, which cannot thought declare,
            Yet is thought’s harbinger.
   These strains the way for thine own strains prepare;
   We feel the music moist upon this breeze,
   And hope the congregating poesies.
         Sundered yet by thee from us
         Wait, with wild eyes luminous,
   All thy wingèd things that are to be;
   They flit against thee, Gate of Ivory!
   They clamour on the portress Destiny,—
   “Set her wide, so we may issue through!
   Our vans are quick for that they have to do!”
         Suffer still your young desire;
   Your plumes but bicker at the tips with fire,
   Tarry their kindling; they will beat the higher.
   And thou, bright girl, not long shalt thou repeat
   Idly the music from thy mother caught;
            Not vainly has she wrought,
   Not vainly from the cloudward-jetting turret
   Of her aërial mind, for thy weak feet,
   Let down the silken ladder of her thought.
      She bare thee with a double pain,
         Of the body and the spirit;
      Thou thy fleshly weeds hast ta’en,
         Thy diviner weeds inherit!
   The precious streams which through thy young lips roll
   Shall leave their lovely delta in thy soul:
      Where sprites of so essential kind
               Set their paces,
      Surely they shall leave behind
               The green traces
      Of their sportance in the mind,
      And thou shalt, ere we well may know it,
            Turn that daintiness, a poet,—
               Elfin-ring
            Where sweet fancies foot and sing.
         So it may be, so it _shall_ be,—
         Oh, take the prophecy from me!
   What if the old fastidious sculptor, Time,
         This crescent marvel of his hands
         Carveth all too painfully,
   And I who prophesy shall never see?
   What if the niche of its predestined rhyme,
      Its aching niche, too long expectant stands?
         Yet shall he after sore delays
         On some exultant day of days
         The white enshrouding childhood raise
   From thy fair spirit, finished for our gaze;
         While we (but ’mongst that happy “we”
               The prophet cannot be!)
   While we behold with no astonishments,
   With that serene fulfilment of delight
               Wherewith we view the sight
         When the stars pitch the golden tents
   Of their high campment on the plains of night.
   Why should amazement be our satellite?
               What wonder in such things?
   If angels have hereditary wings,
      If not by Salic law is handed down
                  The poet’s crown,
      To thee, born in the purple of the throne,
            The laurel must belong:
            Thou, in thy mother’s right
   Descendant of Castalian-chrismed kings—
         O Princess of the Blood of Song!

   Peace; too impetuously have I been winging
      Toward vaporous heights which beckon and beguile
         I sink back, saddened to my inmost mind;
   Even as I list a-dream that mother singing
      The poesy of sweet tone, and sadden, while
         Her voice is cast in troubled wake behind
         The keel of her keen spirit.  Thou art enshrined
   In a too primal innocence for this eye—
   Intent on such untempered radiancy—
   Not to be pained; my clay can scarce endure
   Ungrieved the effluence near of essences so pure.
               Therefore, little, tender maiden,
               Never be thou overshaden
               With a mind whose canopy
         Would shut out the sky from thee;
   Whose tangled branches intercept Heaven’s light:
         I will not feed my unpastured heart
         On thee, green pleasaunce as thou art,
   To lessen by one flower thy happy daisies white.
   The water-rat is earth-hued like the runlet
      Whereon he swims; and how in me should lurk
   Thoughts apt to neighbour thine, thou creature sunlit?
            If through long fret and irk
   Thine eyes within their browed recesses were
   Worn caves where thought lay couchant in its lair;
   Wert thou a spark among dank leaves, ah ruth!
   With age in all thy veins, while all thy heart was youth;
         Our contact might run smooth.
   But life’s Eoan dews still moist thy ringèd hair;
         Dian’s chill finger-tips
   Thaw if at night they happen on thy lips;
   The flying fringes of the sun’s cloak frush
   The fragile leaves which on those warm lips blush;
         And joy only lurks retirèd
         In the dim gloaming of thine irid.
   Then since my love drags this poor shadow, me,
   And one without the other may not be,
            From both I guard thee free.
         It still is much, yes, it is much,
   Only—my dream!—to love my love of thee;
         And it is much, yes, it is much,
   In hands which thou hast touched to feel thy touch
   In voices which have mingled with thine own
            To hear a double tone.
   As anguish, for supreme expression prest,
         Borrows its saddest tongue from jest,
         Thou hast of absence so create
         A presence more importunate;
         And thy voice pleads its sweetest suit
               When it is mute.
         I thank the once accursèd star
               Which did me teach
   To make of Silence my familiar,
   Who hath the rich reversion of thy speech,
   Since the most charming sounds thy thought can wear,
   Cast off, fall to that pale attendant’s share;
         And thank the gift which made my mind
   A shadow-world, wherethrough the shadows wind
   Of all the loved and lovely of my kind.

         Like a maiden Saxon, folden,
            As she flits, in moon-drenched mist;
         Whose curls streaming flaxen-golden,
            By the misted moonbeams kist,
         Dispread their filmy floating silk
            Like honey steeped in milk:
         So, vague goldenness remote,
         Through my thoughts I watch thee float.
   When the snake summer casts her blazoned skin
   We find it at the turn of autumn’s path,
   And think it summer that rewinded hath,
               Joying therein;
   And this enamouring slough of thee, mine elf,
         I take it for thyself;
   Content.  Content?  Yea, title it content.
   The very loves that belt thee must prevent
   My love, I know, with their legitimacy:
   As the metallic vapours, that are swept
   Athwart the sun, in his light intercept
               The very hues
   Which _their_ conflagrant elements effuse.
         But, my love, my heart, my fair,
         That only I should see thee rare,
   Or tent to the hid core thy rarity,—
      This were a mournfulness more piercing far
      Than that those other loves my own must bar,
   Or thine for others leave thee none for me.

         But on a day whereof I think,
         One shall dip his hand to drink
         In that still water of thy soul,
         And its imaged tremors race
         Over thy joy-troubled face,
         As the intervolved reflections roll
         From a shaken fountain’s brink,
         With swift light wrinkling its alcove.
         From the hovering wing of Love
   The warm stain shall flit roseal on thy cheek,
         Then, sweet blushet! whenas he,
   The destined paramount of thy universe,
      Who has no worlds to sigh for, ruling thee,
      Àscends his vermeil throne of empery,
            One grace alone I seek.
   Oh! may this treasure-galleon of my verse,
   Fraught with its golden passion, oared with cadent rhyme,
   Set with a towering press of fantasies,
            Drop safely down the time,
      Leaving mine islèd self behind it far
   Soon to be sunken in the abysm of seas,
   (As down the years the splendour voyages
      From some long ruined and night-submergèd star),
   And in thy subject sovereign’s havening heart
   Anchor the freightage of its virgin ore;
            Adding its wasteful more
   To his own overflowing treasury.
   So through his river mine shall reach thy sea,
            Bearing its confluent part;
            In his pulse mine shall thrill;
   And the quick heart shall quicken from the heart that’s still.

   Ah! help, my Dæmon that hast served me well!
      Not at this last, oh, do not me disgrace!
      I faint, I sicken, darkens all my sight,
      As, poised upon this unprevisioned height,
            I lift into its place
   The utmost aery traceried pinnacle.
   So; it is builded, the high tenement,
            —God grant—to mine intent!
   Most like a palace of the Occident,
         Up-thrusting, toppling maze on maze,
                  Its mounded blaze,
   And washèd by the sunset’s rosy waves,
   Whose sea drinks rarer hue from those rare walls it laves.
         Yet wail, my spirits, wail!
   So few therein to enter shall prevail!
   Scarce fewer could win way, if their desire
   A dragon baulked, with involuted spire,
   And writhen snout spattered with yeasty fire.
   For at the elfin portal hangs a horn
         Which none can wind aright
         Save the appointed knight
   Whose lids the fay-wings brushed when he was born.
         All others stray forlorn,
   Or glimpsing, through the blazoned windows scrolled
   Receding labyrinths lessening tortuously
         In half obscurity;
   With mystic images, inhuman, cold,
         That flameless torches hold.
      But who can wind that horn of might
   (The horn of dead Heliades) aright,—
               Straight
   Open for him shall roll the conscious gate;
   And light leap up from all the torches there,
   And life leap up in every torchbearer,
   And the stone faces kindle in the glow,
   And into the blank eyes the irids grow,
   And through the dawning irids ambushed meanings show.
            Illumined this wise on,
   He threads securely the far intricacies,
      With brede from Heaven’s wrought vesture overstrewn;
   Swift Tellus’ purfled tunic, girt upon
   With the blown chlamys of her fluttering seas;
         And the freaked kirtle of the pearlèd moon:
   Until he gain the structure’s core, where stands—
               A toil of magic hands—
   The unbodied spirit of the sorcerer,
                  Most strangely rare,
         As is a vision remembered in the noon;
   Unbodied, yet to mortal seeing clear,
   Like sighs exhaled in eager atmosphere.
   From human haps and mutabilities
   It rests exempt, beneath the edifice
            To which itself gave rise;
   Sustaining centre to the bubble of stone
   Which, breathed from it, exists by it alone.
      Yea, ere Saturnian earth her child consumes,
   And I lie down with outworn ossuaries,
   Ere death’s grim tongue anticipates the tomb’s
            _Siste viator_, in this storied urn
            My living heart is laid to throb and burn,
      Till end be ended, and till ceasing cease.

   And thou by whom this strain hath parentage;
      Wantoner between the yet untreacherous claws
      Of newly-whelped existence! ere he pause,
   What gift to thee can yield the archimage?
            For coming seasons’ frets
            What aids, what amulets,
            What softenings, or what brightenings?
   As Thunder writhes the lash of his long lightnings
      About the growling heads of the brute main
      Foaming at mouth, until it wallow again
      In the scooped oozes of its bed of pain;
   So all the gnashing jaws, the leaping heads
   Of hungry menaces, and of ravening dreads,
                  Of pangs
   Twitch-lipped, with quivering nostrils and immitigate fangs,
   I scourge beneath the torment of my charms
   That their repentless nature fear to work thee harms.
   And as yon Apollonian harp-player,
            Yon wandering psalterist of the sky,
   With flickering strings which scatter melody,
   The silver-stolèd damsels of the sea,
            Or lake, or fount, or stream,
      Enchants from their ancestral heaven of waters
   To Naiad it through the unfrothing air;
         My song enchants so out of undulous dream
      The glimmering shapes of its dim-tressèd daughters,
   And missions each to be thy minister.
                  Saying; “O ye,
   The organ-stops of being’s harmony;
   The blushes on existence’s pale face,
            Lending it sudden grace;
   Without whom we should but guess Heaven’s worth
   By blank negations of this sordid earth,
         (So haply to the blind may light
   Be but gloom’s undetermined opposite);
   Ye who are thus as the refracting air
   Whereby we see Heaven’s sun before it rise
   Above the dull line of our mortal skies;
   As breathing on the strainèd ear that sighs
   From comrades viewless unto strainèd eyes,
   Soothing our terrors in the lampless night;
   Ye who can make this world where all is deeming
   What world ye list, being arbiters of seeming;
   Attend upon her ways, benignant powers!
   Unroll ye life a carpet for her feet,
   And cast ye down before them blossomy hours,
   Until her going shall be clogged with sweet!
   All dear emotions whose new-bathèd hair,
   Still streaming from the soul, in love’s warm air
   Smokes with a mist of tender fantasies;
               All these,
   And all the heart’s wild growths which, swiftly bright,
   Spring up the crimson agarics of a night,
   No pain in withering, yet a joy arisen;
   And all thin shapes more exquisitely rare,
               More subtly fair,
   Than these weak ministering words have spell to prison
   Within the magic circle of this rhyme;
   And all the fays who in our creedless clime
               Have sadly ceased
   Bearing to other children childhood’s proper feast;
   Whose robes are fluent crystal, crocus-hued,
         Whose wings are wind a-fire, whose mantles wrought
            From spray that falling rainbows shake
         These, ye familiars to my wizard thought,
         Make things of journal custom unto her;
               With lucent feet imbrued,
         If young Day tread, a glorious vintager,
   The wine-press of the purple-foamèd east;
   Or round the nodding sun, flush-faced and sunken,
               His wild bacchantes drunken
   Reel, with rent woofs a-flaunt, their westering rout.
   —But lo! at length the day is lingered out,
   At length my Ariel lays his viol by;
   We sing no more to thee, child, he and I;
               The day is lingered out:
                     In slow wreaths folden
            Around yon censer, spherèd, golden,
               Vague Vesper’s fumes aspire;
               And glimmering to eclipse
               The long laburnum drips
   Its honey of wild flame, its jocund spilth of fire.

      _Now pass your ways_, _fair bird_, _and pass your ways_,
               _If you will_;
               _I have you through the days_!
               _A flit or hold you still_,
               _And perch you where you list_
                     _On what wrist_,—
            _You are mine through the times_!
   _I have caught you fast for ever in a tangle of sweet rhymes_.
            _And in your young maiden morn_,
                  _You may scorn_,
                  _But you must be_
            _Bound and sociate to me_;
   _With this thread from out the tomb my dead hand shall tether thee_!

                                * * * * *

   Go, sister-songs, to that sweet sister-pair
   For whom I have your frail limbs fashionèd,
         And framèd feateously;—
   For whom I have your frail limbs fashionèd
   With how great shamefastness and how great dread,
   Knowing you frail, but not if you be fair,
         Though framèd feateously;
         Go unto them from me.
   Go from my shadow to their sunshine sight,
         Made for all sights’ delight;
   Go like twin swans that oar the surgy storms
   To bate with pennoned snows in candent air:
         Nigh with abasèd head,
   Yourselves linked sisterly, that sister-pair,
         And go in presence there;
   Saying—“Your young eyes cannot see our forms,
   Nor read the yearning of our looks aright;
   But time shall trail the veilings from our hair,
   And cleanse your seeing with his euphrasy,
   (Yea, even your bright seeing make more bright,
         Which is all sights’ delight),
   And ye shall know us for what things we be.

   “Whilom, within a poet’s calyxed heart,
   A dewy love we trembled all apart;
         Whence it took rise
         Beneath your radiant eyes,
   Which misted it to music.  We must long,
   A floating haze of silver subtile song,
         Await love-laden
         Above each maiden
   The appointed hour that o’er the hearts of you—
         As vapours into dew
         Unweave, whence they were wove,—
   Shall turn our loosening musics back to love.”




Inscription


   WHEN the last stir of bubbling melodies
   Broke as my chants sank underneath the wave
   Of dulcitude, but sank again to rise
   Where man’s embaying mind those waters lave,
   (For music hath its Oceanides
   Flexuously floating through their parent seas,
         And such are these),
   I saw a vision—or may it be
   The effluence of a dear desired reality?
         I saw two spirits high,—
   Two spirits, dim within the silver smoke
         Which is for ever woke
   By snowing lights of fountained Poesy.
   Two shapes they were familiar as love;
         They were those souls, whereof
   One twines from finest gracious daily things,
   Strong, constant, noticeless, as are heart-strings
   The golden cage wherein this song-bird sings;
   And the other’s sun gives hue to all my flowers,
   Which else pale flowers of Tartarus would grow,
   Where ghosts watch ghosts of blooms in ghostly bowers;—
               For we do know
   The hidden player by his harmonies,
   And by my thoughts I know what still hands thrill the keys.

   And to these twain—as from the mind’s abysses
   All thoughts draw toward the awakening heart’s sweet kisses,
   With proffer of their wreathen fantasies,—
            Even so to these
   I saw how many brought their garlands fair,
   Whether of song, or simple love, they were,—
   Of simple love, that makes best garlands fair.
   But one I marked who lingered still behind,
   As for such souls no seemly gift had he:
         He was not of their strain,
   Nor worthy of so bright beings to entertain,
   Nor fit compeer for such high company.
   Yet was he, surely, born to them in mind,
   Their youngest nursling of the spirit’s kind.
         Last stole this one,
   With timid glance, of watching eyes adread,
   And dropped his frightened flower when all were gone;
   And where the frail flower fell, it witherèd.
   But yet methought those high souls smiled thereon;
   As when a child, upstraining at your knees
   Some fond and fancied nothings, says, “I give you these!”




***