So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce

The dancers will break footing, from the care

Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

A guest for queens to social pageantries,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

That weeps...as thou must sing...alone, aloof.

Could tread them out to darkness utterly,

From God than from all others, O my friend !

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred

Have heard this word thou hast said,--Himself, beside

Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

Guess now who holds thee ? -- Death, I said. But, there,

Of desolation ! there s a voice within

The grey dust up,...those laurels on thine head,

And Death must dig the level where these agree.

To let thy music drip here unaware

Our ministering two angels look surprise

One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse

Our ministering two angels look surprise

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young;

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred

Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied

The gray dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,

The hair beneath. Stand farther off then! go.

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

Less absolute exclusion. Nay is worse

My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died,

Men could not part us with their worldly jars,

The hair beneath. Stand farther off then ! go.

In folds of golden fulness at my door ?

We should but vow the faster for the stars.

Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:

A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair:

Of chief musician. What hast thou to do

Have heard this word thou has said,--Himself, beside

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,

九_九_藏_书_网Look up and see the casement broken in,

It might be well perhaps. But if instead

From God than from all others, O my friend!

The dancers will break footing, from the care

One of us...that was God,...and laid the curse

For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;

And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

And Death must dig the level where these agree.

Unlike our uses and our destinies.

A guest for queens to social pageantries,

My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see

The deathweights, placed there, would have signified

And dost thou lift this houses latch too poor

Most gracious singer of high poems ! where

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

The chrism is on thine head,--on mine, the dew,--

A shadow across me. Straightaway I was ware,

Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;

Look up and see the casement broken in,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part

A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through

Unlike our uses and our destinies.

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

The silver answer rang,-- Not Death, but Love.

For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear

Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--

On one another, as they strike athwart

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

Hush, call no echo up in further proof

And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,

In folds of golden fulness at my door?

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,

The bats and owlets builders in the roof!

The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see

My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

Most gracious singer of high poems! where

My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died,九-九-藏-书-网

Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

But only three in all Gods universe

As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

It might be well perhaps. But if instead

Could tread them out to darkness utterly,

A shadow across me. Straightway I was ware,

And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn

To let thy music drop here unaware

The silver answer rang,--<i>Not Death, but Love.</i>

The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?

So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

The bats and owlets builders in the roof !

With looking from the lattice-lights at me,

O my Belovèd, will not shield thee so,

And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn

Men could not part us with their worldly jars,

We should but vow the faster for the stars.

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart !

Hush, call no九-九-藏-书-网 echo up in further proof

Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

The deathweights, placed there, would have signified

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Through the ashen grayness. If thy foot in scorn

With gages from a hundred brighter eyes

Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:

And dost thou lift this houses latch too poor

Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow

Guess now who holds thee?--<i>Death,</i> I said, But, there,

Less absolute exclusion. Nay is worse

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--

The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree ?

Of desolation! theres a voice within

Thee speaking, and me listening ! and replied

And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,

The chrism is on thine head,--on mine, the dew--

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

On one another, as they strike athwart