The dewdrop from the rose that drips Hath not the sparkle of her lips, My lady's lips.
Than her long braids of yellow hold The dandelion hath not more gold, Her braids of gold.
The blue-bell hints not more of skies Than do the flowers of her eyes, My lady's eyes.
The sweet-pea bloom shows not more grace Of delicate pink than doth her face, My lady's face.
So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray, Spring blossoms in my heart to-day, This winter day!
_These are the flowers I bring to thee, Heart's-ease, euphrasy and rue, Grown in my Garden of Poetry; Wear them, sweet, on thy breast for me: The first for thoughts; and the other two For spiritual vision, that's always true, So thou with thy soul mayst ever see The love in my heart I keep for thee._
Her hills and vales are dimmer Than sunset's shadowy shimmer; Thin mists, that curl, of poppy and pearl, Above her bowers glimmer; And, silvered o'er with sails of faery galleys, Far off the sea gleams, glimpsed through fountained valleys.
The moon floats never higher Than one white peak of fire; And in its beams pale Beauty dreams, And Music tunes her lyre; And, Siren-like, beside the moonlit waters, Fair Fancy sits singing with Memory's daughters.
A cloud, above and under The ocean, white with wonder, Looms, starry steep; and, opening deep, Grows gold with silent thunder; Revealing far within, immeasurable, Lost Avalons of old Romance and Fable.
Ah! could my spirit shatter These bonds of flesh and matter, And, at a word, mount like a bird To her through mists that scatter; And, raimented in love and inspiration, Look down on Earth from that exalted station:
No mortal might inveigle My soul, that, like an eagle, Would soar and soar from shore to shore Of her, the rare and regal; And by her love made all a lyric rapture, A wild desire, wing far beyond all capture.
Thus have I pictured her:--In Arden old A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye, And rose-flushed face, and locks of wind-blown gold, Teaching her hawks to fly.
Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat, In huntsman green, she sounds the hunt's wild prize, Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet The spear-pierced monster dies.
Or in Brécèliand, on some high tower, Clad soft in samite, last of her lost race, I have beheld her, lovelier than a flower, Turn from the world her face.