Because of grave-damps falling round my head? But... so much to thee? While my hands tremble? I am thine Can I pour thy wine Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. Then, love me, Love! look on me... breathe on me! As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee! Thou comest! all is said without a word. I sit beneath thy looks, as children do In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred The sin most, but the occasion . . . that we two By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close, If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange, When I look up, to drop on a new range Of walls and floors . . . another home than this? Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change? That's hardest.. If to conquer love, has tried, To conquer grief, tries more . . . as all things prove; For grief indeed is love and grief beside. Alas I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me - wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove. Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace ... In the new Heavens! - because nor sin nor woe, For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. FROM "THE EPITHALAMIUM." OPEN the temple gates unto my love, With trembling steps, and humble reverence, When so ye come into those holy places, Bring her up to the high altar, that she may The praises of the Lord in lively notes; The choristers the joyous anthem sing, That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. That even the angels, which continually Forget their service, and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluia sing. That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. EDMUND SPEnser. A COMPLAINT. THERE is a change, - and I am poor; |