From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies ΙΟ And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above; Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will; You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. V I A VOICE by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me, 2 Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base. 3 Silence, beautiful voice! Be still, for you only trouble the mind Still! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice VI I MORNING arises stormy and pale, In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, I had fancied it would be fair. 2 Whom but Maud should I meet At the head of the village street, And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet She made me divine amends For a courtesy not return'd. 3 And thus a delicate spark Thro' the livelong hours of the dark Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, But an ashen-gray delight. 4 What if with her sunny hair, To entangle me when we met, To have her lion roll in a silken net And fawn at a victor's feet. 5 Ah, what shall I be at fifty If Maud were all that she seem'd, And her smile were all that I dream'd, Then the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet. 6 What if tho' her eye seem'd full With a glassy smile his brutal scorn- 7 For a raven ever croaks, at my side, Or thou wilt prove their tool. Yea too, myself from myself I guard, 8 Perhaps the smile and tender tone Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, Till a morbid hate and horror have grown On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 9 O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught For what was it else with me wrought But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, And the sunlight broke from her lip? ΙΟ I have play'd with her when a child; Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled Yet, if she were not a cheat, If Maud were all that she seem'd, VII I DID I hear it half in a doze Long since, I know not where? Did I dream it an hour ago, 2 Men were drinking together, 3 Is it an echo of something In some Arabian night? |