Eleänore? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleänore? Every turn and glance of thine, Eleänore, And the steady sunset glow, From one censer, in one shrine, Mingle ever. Motions flow To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep I stand before thee, Eleänore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore! Sometimes, with most intensity Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, But am as nothing in its light: As though a star, in inmost heaven set, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd-then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; Thought seems to come and go As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof'd the world with doubt and fear, Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove Shadow forth the banks at will; Or sometimes they swell and move, His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined ; I watch thy grace; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, While I muse upon thy face And a languid fire creeps ; Thro' my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly soon From thy rose-red lips My name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, G THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world? In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup— I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad. |