Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. II. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. III. All night have the roses heard All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd IV. I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. Low on the sand and loud on the stone V. I said to the rose, "The brief night goes O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, "For ever and ever, mine." VI. And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; VII. From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet VIII. The slender acacia would not shake The lilies and roses were all awake, IX. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, X. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the lily whispers, "I wait." XI. She is coming, my own, my sweet; PART II, IV. [Mit geringen Abweichungen bereits 1837 gedruckt in "The Tribute. A Collection of... Poems. Edited by Lord Northampton" u. d. T. "Stanzas".] I. O THAT 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again! II. When I was wont to meet her Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter III. A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee: The souls we loved, that they might tell us IV. It leads me forth at evening, It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me, At the shouts, the leagues of lights, V. Half the night I waste in sighs, VI. 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, She is walking in the meadow, VII. Do I hear her sing as of old, My own dove with the tender eye? But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, There is some one dying or dead, And a sullen thunder is roll'd; VIII. Get thee hence, nor come again, IX. Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, |