"Thy word," she said. And pure as peaks that keep Snow-drifted crowns, upon him seemed to sweep An avalanche of virtue in one look. And he, whose very soul within him shook, Exclaimed, "'Tis thine!"--And hopes, that in his brain Had risen with rainbow gleams, set sad as rain At that high look she gave of chastest pain. Then turned, his face deep in his hands: and she Laid the broad blade between them instantly. And so they lay its iron between them twain: Unsleeping he, for all the brute disdain Of passion in him struggled up and stood A rebel wrangling with the brain and blood. An hour stole by: she slept, or seemed to sleep. The winds of night blew vigorous from the deep With rain-scents of storm-watered wood and wold, And breathed of ocean breakers moonlight-rolled. He drowsed; and time passed stealing as for one Whose life is but a dream in Avalon. Vast bulks of black, wind-shattered rack went by The casement's square of heaven,--a crystal dye, A crown of moonlight, round each cloudy head,-- That seemed the ghosts of giant kings long-dead. And then he thought she lightly laughed and sighed, So soft a taper had not bent aside, And leaned her warm face, seen through loosened hair, Above him, whispering, soft as is a prayer, "Behold! the sword! I take the sword away!"
It curved and clashed where the strewn rushes lay; Shone glassy, glittering like a watery beam Of moonlight, in the moonlight. He did deem She moved in sleep and dreamed perverse nor wist The thing she did, until two hot lips kissed His wondering eyes to knowledge of her thought. Then said he, "Love, my word! is it then naught?" But now he felt fierce kisses over and over, And laughter of "Thy word?--Art thou my lover?-- Kisses are more than words!--Come, give them me!-- As for thy word--I give it back to thee!"
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits, Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits; From out her form a pearly light is shed, As, from a lily in a lily-bed, A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone, Uncertain as a cloud that lies alone In empty heaven; her diaphanous feet Are easy as the dew or opaline heat Of summer meads. With ears--aurora-pink As dawn's--she leans and listens on the brink Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt, Wherein vague lights and shadows move about, And palpitations beat--like some huge heart Of Earth--the surging pulse of which we're part. One hand, that hollows her divining eyes, Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies; And with her gaze she fathoms life and death-- Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath Of wind, goes wandering; whispering low of things, The irremediable, where sorrow clings. Around her limbs a veil of woven mist Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst To textured crystal; through which symboled bars Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars Of nebulous gold. Shrouding her feet and hair, Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere, Dreams come and go: the instant images Of things she sees and thinks; realities, Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm, That in the veil take momentary form: Now picturing heaven in celestial fire, And now the hell of every soul's desire; Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery, Beyond the world we touch and know and see.