Volume IV Part 5 (2/2)

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear Too calm and sad a face in front of thine; For we two look two ways, and cannot s.h.i.+ne With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.

On me thou lookest with no doubting care, As on a bee shut in a crystalline; Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine, And to spread wing and fly in the outer air Were most impossible failure, if I strove To fail so. But I look on thee--on thee-- Beholding, besides love, the end of love, Hearing oblivion beyond memory; As one who sits and gazes from above, Over the rivers to the bitter sea.

XVI.

And yet, because thou overcomest so, Because thou art more n.o.ble and like a king, Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow Too close against thine heart henceforth to know How it shook when alone. Why, conquering May prove as lordly and complete a thing In lifting upward, as in crus.h.i.+ng low!

And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword To one who lifts him from the b.l.o.o.d.y earth, Even so, Beloved, I at last record, Here ends my strife. If _thou_ invite me forth, I rise above abas.e.m.e.nt at the word.

Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.

XVII.

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes G.o.d set between His After and Before, And strike up and strike off the general roar Of the rus.h.i.+ng worlds a melody that floats In a serene air purely. Antidotes Of medicated music, answering for Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour From thence into their ears. G.o.d's will devotes Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.

How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?

A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?

A shade, in which to sing--of palm or pine?

A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.

XVIII.

I never gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully, I ring out to the full brown length and say ”Take it.” My day of youth went yesterday; My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, As girls do, any more: it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears Would take this first, but Love is justified,-- Take it thou,--finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died.

XIX.

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise; I barter curl for curl upon that mart, And from my poet's forehead to my heart Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,-- As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, ...

The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise, Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!

Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, I tie the shadows safe from gliding back, And lay the gift where nothing hindereth; Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.

XX.

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago, What time I sat alone here in the snow And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink No moment at thy voice, but, link by link, Went counting all my chains as if that so They never could fall off at any blow Struck by thy possible hand,--why, thus I drink Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful, Never to feel thee thrill the day or night With personal act or speech,--nor ever cull Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, Who cannot guess G.o.d's presence out of sight.

XXI.

Say over again, and yet once over again, That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated Should seem ”a cuckoo-song,” as thou dost treat it.

Remember, never to the hill or plain, Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain Cry, ”Speak once more--thou lovest!” Who can fear Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll The silver iterance!--only minding, Dear, To love me also in silence with thy soul.

XXII.

<script>