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Their litany of curses some guess right,
It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm, A happy and auspicious bird of calm, Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean; A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion ; A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are, Lifts its bold head into the world's frore air, And blooms most radiantly when others die, Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity ; And with the light and odor of its bloom, Shining within the dungeon and the tomb; Whose coming is as light and music are 'Mid dissonance and gloom - a star Which moves not ’mid the moving heavens alone — A smile among dark frowns - a gentle tone Among rude voices, a beloved light, A solitude, a refuge, a delight. If I had but a friend! Why, I have three Even by my own confession ; there may be Some more, for what I know, for 'tis my mind To call my friends all who are wise and kind, And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few; But none can ever be more dear than you. Why should they be? My muse has lost her wings, Or like a dying swan who soars and sings,
67 frore, Rossetti || pure, Mrs. Shelley, 18392.
I should describe you in heroic style,
To the oblivion whither I and thou,
My hopes of Heaven - you know what they are
worth That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth, If they could tell the riddle offered here Would scorn to be, or, being, to appear What now they seem and are - but let them chide, They have few pleasures in the world beside ;
Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden; Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden. Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.
Farewell, if it can be to say farewel
I will not, as most dedicators do,
would to God they were Who taunt me with
love! I then should wear These heavy chains of life with a light spirit, And would to God I were, or even as near it As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds Driven by the wind in warring multitudes, Which rain into the bosom of the earth, And rise again, and in our death and birth, And through our restless life, take as from heaven Hues which are not our own, but which are given, And then withdrawn, and with inconstant glance Flash from the spirit to the countenance. There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God, Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode, A Pythian exhalation, which inspires Love, only love — a wind which o'er the wires Of the soul's giant harp There is a mood which language faints beneath ; You feel it striding, as Almighty Death His bloodless steed.
And what is that most brief and bright delight Which rushes through the touch and through the
And stands before the spirit's inmost throne,
It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream
What is that joy which serene infancy
ever new ? Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to show These forms more
sincere Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were. When everything familiar seemed to be Wonderful, and the immortality Of this great world, which all things must inherit, Was felt as one with the awakening spirit, Unconscious of itself, and of the strange Distinctions which in its proceeding change It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were A desolation.
Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily,
LINES WRITTEN FOR ADONAIS
And ever as he went he swept a lyre
of impetuous fire,
And dying on the streams of dew serene, Which feed the unmown meads with ever-during
And the green Paradise which western waves
And then came one of sweet and earnest looks,
Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow
Lines written for Adonais. Published by Garnett, 1862.