Imaginary Conversations and Poems Part 66

V

The gates of fame and of the grave Stand under the same architrave.

VI

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow If not quite dim, yet rather so, Still yours from others they shall know Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence tho' it may hap That I be call'd to take a nap In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard, There breathe but o'er my arch of gra.s.s A not too sadly sigh'd _Alas_, And I shall catch, ere you can pa.s.s, That winged word.

VII

Here, ever since you went abroad, If there be change, no change I see, I only walk our wonted road, The road is only walkt by me.

Yes; I forgot; a change there is; Was it of _that_ you bade me tell?

I catch at times, at times I miss The sight, the tone, I know so well.

Only two months since you stood here!

Two shortest months! then tell me why Voices are harsher than they were, And tears are longer ere they dry.

VIII

Tell me not things past all belief; One truth in you I prove; The flame of anger, bright and brief, Sharpens the barb of Love.

IX

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day.

Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek Over my open volume you will say, 'This man loved _me_!' then rise and trip away.

X

FIESOLE IDYL

Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound Into hot Summer's l.u.s.ty arms, expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em, And softer sighs that know not what they want, Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Of sights in Fiesole right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden-steps And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.

I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, Such I believed it must be. How could I Let beast o'erpower them? When hath wind or rain Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, And I (however they might bl.u.s.ter round) Walkt off? 'Twere most ungrateful: for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores.

They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) Among their kindred in their native place.

I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.

I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; I saw the foot that, although half-erect From its grey slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted: I held down a branch And gather'd her some blossoms; since their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way thro'

And scattering them in fragments under-foot.

So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into sh.e.l.ls, For such appear the petals when detacht, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen thro', by eye or sun: Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, But so she praised them to reward my care.

I said, 'You find the largest.'

'This indeed,'

Cried she, 'is large and sweet.' She held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to stake She knew not, nor did I; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt.

I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropt it, as loath to drop it, on the rest.

XI

Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.

XII

With rosy hand a little girl prest down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a frown Show'd she disliked resistance to her will: But when they droopt their heads and shone much less, She shook them to and fro, and threw them by, And tript away. 'Ye loathe the heaviness Ye love to cause, my little girls!' thought I, 'And what had shone for you, by you must die.'

XIII

Ternissa! you are fled!

I say not to the dead, But to the happy ones who rest below: For, surely, surely, where Your voice and graces are, Nothing of death can any feel or know.

Girls who delight to dwell Where grows most asphodel, Gather to their calm b.r.e.a.s.t.s each word you speak: The mild Persephone Places you on her knee, And your cool palm smooths down stern Pluto's cheek.

XIV

Various the roads of life; in one All terminate, one lonely way We go; and 'Is he gone?'

Is all our best friends say.

XV

Yes; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talkt of by young men As rather clever:

In the last quarter are my eyes, You see it by their form and size; Is it not time then to be wise?

Or now or never.

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve!

While Time allows the short reprieve, Just look at me! would you believe 'Twas once a lover?

I cannot clear the five-bar gate, But, trying first its timber's state, Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait To trundle over.

Thro' gallopade I cannot swing The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring: I cannot say the tender thing, Be 't true or false,

And am beginning to opine Those girls are only half-divine Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine In giddy waltz.

I fear that arm above that shoulder, I wish them wiser, graver, older, Sedater, and no harm if colder And panting less.

Ah! people were not half so wild In former days, when, starchly mild, Upon her high-heel'd Ess.e.x smiled The brave Queen Bess.

XVI

ON SEEING A HAIR OF LUCRETIA BORGIA