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A little of thy merriment,
Ye have been very kind and good
Of all good things I would have part,
Heaven help me! how could I forget
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
NOT as all other women are
Great feelings hath she of her own,
Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot,
Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise ;
She hath no scorn of common things,
And patiently she folds her wings
Blessing she is: God made her so,
She is most fair, and thereunto
And, ere the next heart-beat, the windhurled pile,
That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof;
Against the windows the storm comes dashing,
Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,
The blue lightning flashes,
Hush! Still as death,
The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will;
The rain stopsshort, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves,
All is so bodingly still;
Again, now, now, again
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,
Again the thunder shouts
Followed by silence dead and dull,
To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow,
And then a total lull.
Gone, gone, so soon!
No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form ;The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.
As is the golden mystery of sunset, Or the sweet coming of the evening star,
Alike, and yet most unlike, every day, And seeming ever best and fairest now; A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks,
But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, Showing
its worthiness of noble thoughts By a clear sense of inward nobleness; A love that in its object findeth not All grace and beauty, and enough to sate
Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good Found there, it sees but Heaven-granted types
Of good and beauty in the soul of man, And traces, in the simplest heart that beats,
A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brotherhood.
For love is blind but with the fleshly eye,
That so its inner sight may be more clear;
And outward shows of beauty only so
Great spirits need them not: their earnest look
Pierces the body's mask of thin dis
And beauty ever is to them revealed, Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay,
With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze,
Yearning to be but understood and loved.
TO PERDITA, SINGING.
THY Voice is like a fountain,
To that brimful heart of thine
It hath caught a touch of sadness,
It hath tones of clearest gladness,
A dim, sweet twilight voice it is
Thy voice is like a fountain
And I never weary counting, Its clear droppings, lone and single, Or when in one full gush they mingle, Shooting in melodious light.
Thine is music such as yields
Flowing like an emerald river,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze,
Through and through the old time!
Peace sits within thine eyes, With white hands crossed in joyful rest,
While, through thy lips and face,