Volume Ii Part 122 (1/2)

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet G.o.d has not said a word!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

MODERN BEAUTY

I am the torch, she saith, and what to me If the moth die of me? I am the flame Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame.

But live with that clear light of perfect fire Which is to men the death of their desire.

I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead.

The world has been my mirror, time has been My breath upon the gla.s.s; and men have said, Age after age, in rapture and despair, Love's poor few words, before my image there.

I live, and am immortal; in my eyes The sorrow of the world, and on my lips The joy of life, mingle to make me wise; Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse: Who is there lives for beauty? Still am I The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?

Arthur Symons [1865-

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, ”I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed--Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried--”La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

John Keats [1795-1821]