« AnteriorContinuar »
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The sun was gone now; the curled moon Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together.
(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells
"I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said.
"Have I not prayed in Heaven?-on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
"When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white,
I'll take his hand and go with him
As unto a stream we will step down,
"We two will stand beside that shrine,
And see our old prayers, granted, melt
"We two will lie i' the shadow of
That living mystic tree
Within whose secret growth the Dove
While every leaf that His plumes touch
"And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so,
The songs I sing here; which his voice
(Alas! we two, we two, thou say'st! Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old. But shall God lift
To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul
"We two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names
"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
Into the fine cloth white like flame
To fashion the birth-robes for them
"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
And angels meeting us shall sing
"There will I ask of Christ the Lord
She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild,"All this is when he comes." She ceased.
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
Gedichtet "very little later than 'The Bl. D.'" (1847). Memoir pg. 107.]
THIS is her picture as she was:
It seems a thing to wonder on,
gaze until she seems to stir,--
That now, even now, the sweet lips part
Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray
That makes the prison-depths more rude,--
Yet only this, of love's whole prize,
Takes counsel with my soul alone,-
In painting her I shrined her face
'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in
Where you might think to find a din
A deep dim wood; and there she stands.
Was the still movement of her hands
'Tis she: though of herself, alas! Less than her shadow on the grass Or than her image in the stream.
That day we met there, I and she
Saddens those hours, as when the moon
Athirst where other waters sprang:
But when that hour my soul won strength
Thundered the heat within the hills.
And there she hearkened what I said,
Next day the memories of these things,
Till I must make them all my own And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease Of talk and sweet long silences,
She stood among the plants in bloom