Across the street, across the grass,
Across my life I watch her pass.
No pure star on a dusky
Hath eyes more bright,
No lily on her emerald bedA statelier head,
No dewdrop on the beaded
More radiantly doth glow apart!
O, she doth shine all these to
Fair are they all—star, flower, and dew;
She is the green bud breaking thro’The winter of my heart.
Two violets, seeking Paradise,
Have hid themselves within her eyes.
Her lips are roses.
She doth wearA sunbeam woven in her hair.
And of the foam-flake of the
Her cheek and neck and bosom be.
And like a reed the low wind
Her slender figure glides along,
Serenely tall and fairy
In this, the springtide of her days.
And O, to make my life a
And lay it at her feet!
And now the world recedes.
Time,
Space, are fleeting. All things but thee,
O Love, have ceased to be.
Here where thy heart against my heart is beating, And like a charm thy white arms compass me;
And on thy blue-veined breasts my head is lying, And all about my face is blown thy hair.
Here let Love speak his full heart in sweet sighing, For speech were powerless now to voice his prayer.
Softly thy breath, like scent of violets blowing, Steals o’er my cheek with slow, delicious pain.
Drink whilst thou canst the goblet crowned and flowing, For hours like these will never come again.
There is no bud of Spring about this forest, And in our hearts, too, are the autumn leaves.
Where are the wings,
O Love, on which thou soarest? Meeter art thou to toil and bind the sheaves.
But there is mellower light upon our faces, Thro’ all our veins the steadier currents
The statelier charms remain and friendly graces, Tho’ dull and fitful wanes love’s lava-glow.
The slow bell tolls across the square: She doth not hear its rise and swell.
The frosts of age have silvered
The clusters of her sun-gold hair: She sleepeth well.
Strange city echoes here are sent Of reckless strife for prize and place,
Of hearts with warring passions rent,
But Death’s ineffable content Is on her face— A touch, a joy, a something there That for my sake hath never shone;
Too well I deem in my
Her fairest dream I may not share, And she is gone Beyond these days of care and ruth To those fair stars which poets sing,
Where grows the tree of fadeless
In gardens of Immortal Youth, Eternal Spring.
And she was called Gracia because she was fairest among women.
And many men sought her, but she loved one only
HE
ND OF
UD.
