Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Selected Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Minstrelsy

For ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature's pictured books;
For ever, since my childish tongue
Could name the themes our bards have sung;
So long, the sweetness of their singing
Hath been to me a rapture bringing!
Yet ask me not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

I know that much whereof I sing,
Is shapen but for vanishing;
I know that summer's flower and leaf
And shine and shade are very brief,
And that the heart they brighten, may,
Before them all, be sheathed in clay! --
I do not know the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

A few there are, whose smile and praise
My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:
But, of those few -- Death may impress
The lips of some with silentness;
While some may friendship's faith resign,
And heed no more a song of mine. --
Ask not, ask not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

The sweetest song that minstrels sing,
Will charm not Joy to tarrying;
The greenest bay that earth can grow,
Will shelter not in burning woe;
A thousand voices will not cheer,
When one is mute that aye is dear! --
Is there, alas! no reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

I do not know! The turf is green
Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen,
Yet asks not why that deeper hue
Doth all its tender leaves renew; --
And I, like-minded, am content,
While music to my soul is sent,
To question not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.

Years pass -- my life with them shall pass:
And soon, the cricket in the grass
And summer bird, shall louder sing
Than she who owns a minstrel's string.
Oh then may some, the dear and few,
Recall her love, whose truth they knew;
When all forget to question why
She had delight in minstrelsy!

To ____________

Mine is a wayward lay;
And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string,: Proveth a truant thing,
Whenso some names I love, send it away!

For then, eyes swimming o'er,
And clasped hands, and smiles in fondness meant,: Are much more eloquent --
So it had fain begone, and speak no more!

Yet shall it come again,
Ah, friend belov'd! if so thy wishes be,: And, with wild melody,
I will, upon thine ear, cadence my strain --

Cadence my simple line,
Unfashion'd by the cunning hand of Art,: But coming from my heart,
To tell the message of its love to thine!

As ocean shells, when taken
From Ocean's bed, will faithfully repeat: Her ancient music sweet --
Ev'n so these words, true to my heart, shall waken!

Oh! while our bark is seen,
Our little bark of kindly, social love,: Down life's clear stream to move
Toward the summer shores, where all is green --

So long thy name shall bring,
Echoes of joy unto the grateful gales,: And thousand tender tales,
To freshen the fond hearts that round thee cling!

Hast thou not look'd upon
The flowerets of the field in lowly dress?: Blame not my simpleness --
Think only of my love! -- my song is gone.

The Autumn

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,: And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild: Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them --: The summer flowers depart --
Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,: Except your musing heart.

How there you sat in summer-time,: May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing: Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,: You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,: Doth cause a leaf to fall.

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth: That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,: When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,: When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,: When Sorrow bids us weep!

The dearest hands that clasp our hands, --: Their presence may be o'er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,: That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,: Which once refresh'd our mind,
Shall come -- as, on those sighing woods,: The chilling autumn wind.

Hear not the wind -- view not the woods;: Look out o'er vale and hill-
In spring, the sky encircled them --: The sky is round them still.
Come autumn's scathe -- come winter's cold --: Come change -- and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,: Can ne'er be desolate.

The Deserted Garden

I mind me in the days departed,
How often underneath the sun
With childish bounds I used to run: To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite;
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,
The greenest grasses Nature laid: To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness,
For no one entered there but I;
The sheep looked in, the grass to espy,: And passed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild,
And spread their boughs enough about
To keep both sheep and shepherd out,: But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me!
I crept beneath the boughs, and found
A circle smooth of mossy ground: Beneath a poplar tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,
Bedropt with roses waxen-white
Well satisfied with dew and light: And careless to be seen.

Long years ago it might befall,
When all the garden flowers were trim,
The grave old gardener prided him: On these the most of all.

Some lady, stately overmuch,
Here moving with a silken noise,
Has blushed beside them at the voice: That likened her to such.

And these, to make a diadem,
She often may have plucked and twined,
Half-smiling as it came to mind: That few would look at them.

Oh, little thought that lady proud,
A child would watch her fair white rose,
When buried lay her whiter brows,: And silk was changed for shroud!

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns
For men unlearned and simple phrase,)
A child would bring it all its praise: By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat,
Though never a dream the roses sent
Of science or love's compliment,: I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to see
The trace of human step departed:
Because the garden was deserted,: The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken
Has childhood 'twixt the sun and sward;
We draw the moral afterward,: We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glide
In silence at the rose-tree wall:
A thrush made gladness musical: Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline
To peck or pluck the blossoms white;
How should I know but roses might: Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete,
I brought dear water from the spring
Praised in its own low murmuring,: And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew
(Without the melancholy tale)
To "Gentle Hermit of the Dale,": And Angelina too.

For oft I read within my nook
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze
Made sounds poetic in the trees,: And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write
I hear no more the wind athwart
Those trees, nor feel that childish heart: Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted,
My footstep from the moss which drew
Its fairy circle round: anew: The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse
The madrigals which sweetest are;
No more for me! myself afar: Do sing a sadder verse.

Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought,
I laughed unto myself and thought: "The time will pass away."

And still I laughed, and did not fear
But that, whene'er was past away
The childish time, some happier play: My womanhood would cheer.

I knew the time would pass away,
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,
Dear God, how seldom, if at all,: Did I look up to pray!

The time is past; and now that grows
The cypress high among the trees,
And I behold white sepulchres: As well as the white rose, --

When graver, meeker thoughts are given,
And I have learnt to lift my face,
Reminded how earth's greenest place: The color draws from heaven, --

It something saith for earthly pain,
But more for Heavenly promise free,
That I who was, would shrink to be: That happy child again.

To Flush, My Dog

Loving friend, the gift of one
Who her own true faith has run: Through thy lower nature,
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,: Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady's ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown: Either side demurely
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest: Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine striking this: Alchemise its dullness,
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold: With a burnished fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland: Kindling, growing larger,
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curveting,: Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light,
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,: Canopied in fringes;
Leap! those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine: Down their golden inches

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,
Little is't to such an end: That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears: And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed: Day and night unweary,
Watched within a curtained room
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom: Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,: Beam and breeze resigning;
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone: Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through: Sunny moor or meadow;
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,: Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,: Up the woodside hieing;
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech: Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears: Or a sigh came double,
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,: In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide: Down his dewlaps sloping, --
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, -- platforming his chin: On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice: Than such chamber-keeping,
"Come out!" praying from the door, --
Presseth backward as before,: Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,: Render praise and favor:
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said: Therefore and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do: Often man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men,: Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,: Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
Hands of gentle motion fail: Nevermore, to pat thee

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,: Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
No man break thy purple cup: Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats arointed flee,
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee: Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons: Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee, in wishing weal? --
Tears are in my eyes to feel: Thou art made so straitly,
Blessing needs must straiten too, --
Little canst thou joy or do,: Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight: Pervious to thy nature;
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,: Loving fellow-creature!

Change Upon Change

Five months ago the stream did flow,

The lilies bloomed within the sedge,

And we were lingering to and fro,

Where none will track thee in this snow,

Along the stream, beside the hedge.

Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go!

For if I do not hear thy foot,

The frozen river is as mute,

The flowers have dried down to the root:

And why, since these be changed since May,

Shouldst thou change less than they.

And slow, slow as the winter snow

The tears have drifted to mine eyes;

And my poor cheeks, five months ago

Set blushing at thy praises so,

Put paleness on for a disguise.

Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go!

For if my face is turned too pale,

It was thine oath that first did fail, --

It was thy love proved false and frail, --

And why, since these be changed enow,

Should I change less than thou.

A Musical Instrument

What was he doing, the great god Pan,: Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat: With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,: From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,: Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan: While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed: To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,: (How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing: In holes, as he sat by the river.

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan: (Laughed while he sat by the river),
"The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed."
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,: He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!: Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly: Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,: To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, --
For the reed which grows nevermore again: As a reed with the reeds in the river.

The Cry of the Children

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
            Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers---
            And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
    The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
    The young flowers are blowing toward the west---
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
            They are weeping bitterly!---
They are weeping in the playtime of the others
            In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
            Why their tears are falling so?---
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
            Which is lost in Long Ago---
The old tree is leafless in the forest---
    The old year is ending in the frost---
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest---
    The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
            Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
            In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
            And their looks are sad to see,
For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses
            Down the cheeks of infancy---
"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;"
    "Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary�
    Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,
            For the outside earth is cold,---
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
            And the graves are for the old.

"True," say the young children, "it may happen
            That we die before our time.
Little Alice died last year---the grave is shapen
            Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her---
    Was no room for any work in the close clay:
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her
    Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
    With your ear down, little Alice never cries!---
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
    For the smile has time for growing in her eyes---
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
            The shroud, by the kirk-chime!
It is good when it happens," say the children,
            "That we die before our time."

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
            Death in life, as best to have!
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
            With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city---
    Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do---
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty---
    Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
            Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
            From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
            And we cannot run or leap---
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
            To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping---
    We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
    The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,
            Through the coal-dark, underground---
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
            In the factories, round and round.

"For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,---
            Their wind comes in our faces,---
Till our hearts turn,---our head, with pulses burning,
            And the walls turn in their places---
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling---
    Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall---
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling---
    All are turning, all the day, and we with all.---
And, all day, the iron wheels are droning;
            And sometimes we could pray,
'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)
            'Stop! be silent for to-day!' "

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
            For a moment, mouth to mouth---
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
            Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
    Is not all the life God fashions or reveals---
Let them prove their inward souls against the notion
    That they live in you, os under you, O wheels!---
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
            Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,
            Spin on blindly in the dark.

Now, tell the poor young children, O my brothers,
            To look up to Him and pray---
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
            Will bless them another day.
They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,
    White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us
    Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word!
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
            Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
            Hears our weeping any more?

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,
            And at midnight's hour of harm,---
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,
            We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except 'Our Father,'
    And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
    And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely
            (For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
            'Come and rest with me, my child.'

"But no!" say the children, weeping faster,
            "He is speechless as a stone;
And they tell us, of His image is the master
            Who commands us to work on.
Go to!" say the children,---"Up in Heaven,
    Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving---
    We look up for God, but tears have made us blind."
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
            O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God's possible is taught by His world's loving---
            And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you;
            They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
            Which is brighter than the sun:
They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom;
    They sink in man's despair, without its calm---
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,---
    Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,---
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly
            No dear remembrance keep,---
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:
            Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
            And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in their places,
            With eyes meant for Deity;---
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
    Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
    And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,
            And your purple shows your path;
But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence
            Than the strong man in his wrath!"

A Child Asleep

        How he sleepeth! having drunken
            Weary childhood's mandragore,
        From his pretty eyes have sunken
            Pleasures, to make room for more---
Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.

        Nosegays! leave them for the waking:
            Throw them earthward where they grew.
        Dim are such, beside the breaking
            Amaranths he looks unto---
Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

        Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden
            From the paths they sprang beneath,
        Now perhaps divinely holden,
            Swing against him in a wreath---
We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.

        Vision unto vision calleth,
            While the young child dreameth on.
        Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth
            With the glory thou hast won!
Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun.

        We should see the spirits ringing
            Round thee,---were the clouds away.
        'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
            In the silent-seeming clay---
Singing!---Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.

        As the moths around a taper,
            As the bees around a rose,
        As the gnats around a vapour,---
            So the Spirits group and close
Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.

        Shapes of brightness overlean thee,---
            Flash their diadems of youth
        On the ringlets which half screen thee,---
            While thou smilest, . . . not in sooth
Thy smile . . . but the overfair one, dropt from some aethereal mouth.

        Haply it is angels' duty,
            During slumber, shade by shade:
        To fine down this childish beauty
            To the thing it must be made,
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

        Softly, softly! make no noises!
            Now he lieth dead and dumb---
        Now he hears the angels' voices
            Folding silence in the room---
Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come.

        Speak not! he is consecrated---
            Breathe no breath across his eyes.
        Lifted up and separated,
            On the hand of God he lies,
In a sweetness beyond touching---held in cloistral sanctities.

        Could ye bless him---father---mother ?
            Bless the dimple in his cheek?
        Dare ye look at one another,
            And the benediction speak?
Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?

        He is harmless---ye are sinful,---
            Ye are troubled---he, at ease:
        From his slumber, virtue winful
            Floweth outward with increase---
Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace---and go in peace.

A Sea-Side Walk

We walked beside the sea,
After a day which perished silently
Of its own glory---like the Princess weird
Who, combating the Genius, scorched and seared,
Uttered with burning breath, "Ho! victory!"
And sank adown, an heap of ashes pale;: So runs the Arab tale.

The sky above us showed
An universal and unmoving cloud,
On which, the cliffs permitted us to see
Only the outline of their majesty,
As master-minds, when gazed at by the crowd!
And, shining with a gloom, the water grey: Swang in its moon-taught way.

Nor moon nor stars were out.
They did not dare to tread so soon about,
Though trembling, in the footsteps of the sun.
The light was neither night's nor day's, but one
Which, life-like, had a beauty in its doubt;
And Silence's impassioned breathings round: Seemed wandering into sound.

O solemn-beating heart
Of nature! I have knowledge that thou art
Bound unto man's by cords he cannot sever---
And, what time they are slackened by him ever,
So to attest his own supernal part,
Still runneth thy vibration fast and strong,: The slackened cord along.

For though we never spoke
Of the grey water anal the shaded rock,---
Dark wave and stone, unconsciously, were fused
Into the plaintive speaking that we used,
Of absent friends and memories unforsook;
And, had we seen each other's face, we had: Seen haply, each was sad.

The Poet and the Bird

Said a people to a poet---" Go out from among us straightway!: While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways: Makes fitter music to our ears than any song of thine!"

The poet went out weeping---the nightingale ceased chanting;: "Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?"
I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,: Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun."

The poet went out weeping,---and died abroad, bereft there---: The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails:---
And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there: Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.

The House of Clouds

I would build a cloudy House: For my thoughts to live in;
When for earth too fancy-loose: And too low for Heaven!
Hush! I talk my dream aloud---: I build it bright to see,---
I build it on the moonlit cloud,: To which I looked with thee.

Cloud-walls of the morning's grey,: Faced with amber column,---
Crowned with crimson cupola: From a sunset solemn!
May mists, for the casements, fetch,: Pale and glimmering;
With a sunbeam hid in each,: And a smell of spring.

Build the entrance high and proud,: Darkening and then brightening,---
If a riven thunder-cloud,: Veined by the lightning.
Use one with an iris-stain,: For the door within;
Turning to a sound like rain,: As I enter in.

Build a spacious hall thereby:: Boldly, never fearing.
Use the blue place of the sky,: Which the wind is clearing;
Branched with corridors sublime,: Flecked with winding stairs---
Such as children wish to climb,: Following their own prayers.

In the mutest of the house,: I will have my chamber:
Silence at the door shall use: Evening's light of amber,
Solemnising every mood,: Softemng in degree,---
Turning sadness into good,: As I turn the key.

Be my chamber tapestried: With the showers of summer,
Close, but soundless,---glorified: When the sunbeams come here;
Wandering harpers, harping on: Waters stringed for such,---
Drawing colours, for a tune,: With a vibrant touch.

Bring a shadow green and still: From the chestnut forest,
Bring a purple from the hill,: When the heat is sorest;
Spread them out from wall to wall,: Carpet-wove around,---
Whereupon the foot shall fall: In light instead of sound.

Bring the fantasque cloudlets home: From the noontide zenith
Ranged, for sculptures, round the room,---: Named as Fancy weeneth:
Some be Junos, without eyes;: Naiads, without sources
Some be birds of paradise,---: Some, Olympian horses.

Bring the dews the birds shake off,: Waking in the hedges,---
Those too, perfumed for a proof,: From the lilies' edges:
From our England's field and moor,: Bring them calm and white in;
Whence to form a mirror pure,: For Love's self-delighting.

Bring a grey cloud from the east,: Where the lark is singing;
Something of the song at least,: Unlost in the bringing:
That shall be a morning chair,: Poet-dream may sit in,
When it leans out on the air,: Unrhymed and unwritten.

Bring the red cloud from the sun: While he sinketh, catch it.
That shall be a couch,---with one: Sidelong star to watch it,---
Fit for poet's finest Thought,: At the curfew-sounding,--- ;
Things unseen being nearer brought: Than the seen, around him.

Poet's thought,----not poet's sigh!: 'Las, they come together!
Cloudy walls divide and fly,: As in April weather!
Cupola and column proud,: Structure bright to see---
Gone---except that moonlit cloud,: To which I looked with thee!

Let them! Wipe such visionings: From the Fancy's cartel---
Love secures some fairer things: Dowered with his immortal.
The sun may darken,---heaven be bowed---: But still, unchanged shall be,---
Here in my soul,---that moonlit cloud,: To which I looked with THEE!

A Dead Rose

O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---: Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,---: If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---: If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---: If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---: If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---: If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---: Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---: Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!