Weak Truth, a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth, in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed, Until she be an athlete bold, And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Like that strange angel which of old, Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the lingering night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel. MADELINE. THOU art not steeped in golden languors, Through light and shadow thou dost range, Delicious spites, and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles: but who may know Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, Thy smile and frown are not aloof Each to each is dearest brother; A subtle, sudden flame, By veering passion fanned, About thee breaks and dances; When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of angered shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, But when I turn away, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest, But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG. THE OWL. WHEN cats run home and light is come, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. |