Their litany of curses some guess right, Which lifted from her limbs the veil of stone. It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm, Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone - If I had but a friend! Why, I have three 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, But as it is, are you not void of guile? A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless ; A lute which those whom Love has taught to play And enchant sadness till it sleeps? To the oblivion whither I and thou, All loving and all lovely, hasten now On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke My hopes of Heaven - you know what they are worth That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth, 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 farewell To those who I will not, as most dedicators do, Assure myself and all the world and you, would to God they were That you are faultless Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear These heavy chains of life with a light spirit, As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds And through our restless life, take as from heaven Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode, Love, only love—a wind which o'er the wires There is a mood which language faints beneath; You feel it striding, as Almighty Death And what is that most brief and bright delight Which rushes through the touch and through the sight, And stands before the spirit's inmost throne, It fills the world with glory- and is gone. It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream dream Into the light of morning, to the grave As to an ocean. What is that joy which serene infancy sincere Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were. Of this great world, which all things must inherit, Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily, For all those exiles from the dull insane Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain, For all that band of sister-spirits known To one another by a voiceless tone? LINES WRITTEN FOR ADONAIS And ever as he went he swept a lyre Of unaccustomed shape, and Now like the strings of impetuous fire, Which shakes the forest with its murmurings, Of the enamoured wind among the treen, And dying on the streams of dew serene, Which feed the unmown meads with ever-during green. And the green Paradise which western waves Talking of freedom to their tongueless caves, A record of the wrongs which, though they sleep, And then came one of sweet and earnest looks, Whose soft smiles to his dark and night-like eyes Were as the clear and ever living brooks Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise, Showing how pure they are: a Paradise Of happy truth upon his forehead low Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean gleams below. Lines written for Adonais. Published by Garnett, 1862. |