SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light.
WILLIAM Wordsworth.
WHEN I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree : Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain :
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
IIaply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.
SHE is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smiled on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white! And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fixed a'day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . a simple thing, Yet I wept for it !-this . . . the paper's light. Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, I am thine-and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this. O Love, thy words have ill availed If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THERE grew a lowly flower by Eden-gate Among the thorns and thistles. High the palm Branched o'er her, and imperial by her side Upstood the sunburnt Lily of the east.
The goodly gate swung oft with many gods Going and coming, and the spice-winds blew Music and murmurings, and paradise
Welled over and enriched the outer wild.
Then the palm trembled fast-bound by the feet, And the imperial Lily bowed her down With yearning, but they could not enter in.
The lowly flower she looked up to the palm
And lily, and at eve was full of dews,
And hung her head and wept and said, "Ah these
Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in ?"
There came an angel to the gate at even, A weary angel, with dishevelled hair; The blossoms of his crown fell one by one Through many nights, and seemed a falling star.
He saw the lowly flower by Eden-gate;
And cried, "Ah, pure and beautiful!" and turned And stooped to her and wound her in his hair, And in his golden hair she entered in.
Husband! I was the weed at Eden-gate; I looked up to the lily and the palm Above me, and I wept and said, “Ah these Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in ?"
And one came by me to the gate at even,
And stooped to me and wound me in his hair, And in his golden hair I entered in.
WHEN do I see thee most, beloved one? When in the light the spirits of mine eyes Before thy face, their altar, solemnise
The worship of that Love through thee made known? Or when in the dusk hours (we two alone) Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies, And my soul only sees thy soul its own?
O love, my love! if I no more should see Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,— How then should sound upon life's darkening slope The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing?
DANTE GABRIEL Rossetti.
TRUST me, I have not earned your dear rebuke; I love, as you would have me, God the most; Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost, Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look Unready to forego what I forsook ;
This say I, having counted up the cost, This, though I be the feeblest of God's host, The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with his crook. Yet while I love my God the most, I deem That I can never love you overmuch ;
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