That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this I use my subtlest art, For this I fold thee in my song.
Nay! if thou must depart, thou shalt depart; But why so soon, oh, heart-blood of my heart! Go then! Yet, going, turn and stay thy feet, That I may once more see that face so sweet.
Once more--if never more; for swift days go As hastening waters from their fountains flow; And whether yet again shall meeting be Who knows? Who knows? Ah! turn once more to me!
A thousand knights have rein’d their steeds To watch this line of sand hills run, Along the never-silent strait, To Calais, glittering in the sun.
To look tow’rd Ardres’ Golden Field Across the wide aerial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again.
Oh, that to share this famous scene, I saw, upon the open sand, Thy lovely presence at my side, Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand!
How exquisite thy voice would come, My darling, on this lonely air! How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze Shake loose some band of soft brown hair!
Yet now my glance but once hath roved O’er Calais and its famous plain; To England’s cliffs my gaze is turn’d, On the blue strait mine eyes I strain.
Thou comest! Yes! the vessel’s cloud Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. Oh, that yon sea-bird’s wings were mine, To win one instant’s glimpse of thee!
I must not spring to grasp thy hand, To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; But I may stand far off, and gaze, And watch thee pass unconscious by,
And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, Mixt with the idlers on the pier.-- Ah, might I always rest unseen, So I might have thee always near!
To-morrow hurry through the fields Of Flanders to the storied Rhine! To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine.
My days are full of pleasant memories Of all those women sweet Whom I have known! How tenderly their eyes Flash thro’ the days--too fleet!-- Which long ago went by with sun and rain, Flowers, or the winter snow; And still thro’ memory’s palace-halls are fain In rustling robes to go! Or wed, or widow’d, or with milkless breasts, Around those women stand, Like mists that linger on the mountain crests Rear’d in a phantom land; And love is in their mien and in their look, And from their lips a stream Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook, And softer than a dream: And one by one, holding my hands, they say Things of the years agone; And each head will a little turn away, And each one still sigh on, Because they think such meagre joy we had; For love was little bold, And youth had store, and chances to be glad, And squander’d so his gold. Blue eyes, and gray, and blacker than the sloe, And dusk and golden hair, And lips that broke in kisses long ago, Like sun-kiss’d flowers are there; And warm fireside, and sunny orchard wall, And river-brink and bower, And wood and hill, and morning and day-fall, And every place and hour! And each on each a white unclouded brow Still as a sister bends, As they would say, “Love makes us kindred now, Who sometime were his friends.”