Volume Ii Part 10 (2/2)

When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for the many boys and girls.

Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon.

No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon.

Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.

Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar.

Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed.

Tell the gra.s.sy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.

Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed.

Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whispered the world was; morning light is she.

Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.

Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew.

Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells.

Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-sh.e.l.ls.

Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your s.h.i.+fting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song.

Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams.

When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day.

Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.

Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers.

Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers.

All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands.

My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, Eyes bent anemones, and hangs her hands.

Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why.

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