LETTER IV.

The earth is glad, I know, when night is spent,

For then she wakes the birdlings in the bowers;

And, one by one, the rosy-footed hours

Start for the race; and from his crimson tent

The soldier-sun looks o'er the firmament;

And all his path is strewn with festal flowers.

But what his mission? What the happy quest

Of all this toil? He journeys on his way

As Caesar did, unbiass'd by the sway

Of maid or man. His goal is in the west.

Will he unbuckle there, and, in his rest,

Dream of the gods who died in Nero's day?

Will he arraign the traitor in his camp?

The Winter Comet who, with streaming hair,

Attack'd the sweetest of the Pleiads fair

And ravish'd her, and left her in the damp

Of dull decay, nor re-illumined the lamp

That show'd the place she occupied in air.

No;‘ tis not so! He seeks his lady-moon,

The gentle orb for whom Endymion sigh'd,

And trusts to find her by the ocean tide,

Or near a forest in the coming June;

For he has lov'd her since she late did swoon

In that eclipse of which she nearly died.

He knew her then; he knew her in the glow

Of all her charms. He knew that she was chaste,

And that she wore a girdle at her waist

Whiter than pearl. And when he eyed her so

He knew that in the final overthrow

He should prevail, and she should be embraced.

But were I minded thus, were I the sun,

And thou the moon, I would not bide so long

To hear the marvels of thy wedding-song;

For I would have the planets, every one,

Conduct thee home, before the day was done,

And call thee queen, and crown thee in the throng.

And, like Apollo, I would flash on thee,

And rend thy veil, and call thee by the name

That Daphne lov'd, the loadstar of his fame;

And make myself for thee as white to see

As whitest marble, and as wildly free

As Leda's lover with his look of flame.

And there should then be fetes that should not cease

Till I had kiss'd thee, lov'd one! in a trance

Lasting a life-time, through a life's romance;

And every star should have a mate apiece,

And I would teach them how, in ancient Greece,

The gods were masters of the maidens’ dance.

I should be bold to act; and thou should'st feel

Terror and joy combined, in all the span

Of thy sweet body, ere my fingers ran

From curl to curl, to prompt thee how to kneel;

And then, soul-stricken by thy mute appeal,

I should be quick to answer like a man.

What! have I sinn'd, dear Lady, have I sinn'd

To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?

An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!

Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde

In some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,

And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.

I will not weep. I will not in the night

Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees,

Appeal for pity! In the clustered trees

The wind is boasting of its one delight;

And I will boast of mine, in thy despite,

And say I love thee more than all of these.

The rose in bloom, the linnet as it sings,

The fox, the fawn, the cygnet on the mere,

The dragon-fly that glitters like a spear,—

All these, and more, all these ecstatic things,

Possess their mates; and some arrive on wings,

And some on webs, to make their meanings clear.

Yea, all these things, and more than I can tell,

More than the most we know of, one and all,

Do talk of Love. There is no other call

From wind to wave, from rose to asphodel,

Than Love's alone — the thing we cannot quell,

Do what we will, from font to funeral.

What have I done, I only on the earth,

That I should wait a century for a word?

A hundred years, I know, have been deferr'd

Since last we met, and then it was in dearth

Of gladsome peace; for, in a moment's girth,

My shuddering soul was wounded like a bird.

I knew thy voice. I knew the veering sound

Of that sweet oracle which once did tend

To treat me grandly, as we treat a friend;

And I would know't if darkly underground

I lay as dead, or, down among the drown'd,

I blindly stared, unvalued to the end.

There! take again the kiss I took from thee

Last night in sleep. I met thee in a dream

And drew thee closer than a monk may deem

Good for the soul. I know not how it be,

But this I know: if God be good to me

I shall be raised again to thine esteem.

I touched thy neck. I kiss'd it. I was bold.

And bold am I, to-day, to call to mind

How, in the night, a murmur not unkind

Broke on mine ear; a something new and old

Quick in thy breath, as when a tale is told

Of some great hope with madness intertwined.

And round my lips, in joy and yet in fear,

There seemed to dart the stings of kisses warm.

These were my honey-bees, and soon would swarm

To choose their queen. But ere they did appear,

I heard again that murmur in mine ear

Which seem'd to speak of calm before a storm.

“What is it, love?” I whispered in my sleep,

And turned to thee, as April unto May.

“Art mine in truth, mine own, by night and day,

Now and for ever?” And I heard thee weep,

And then persuade; and then my soul did leap

Swiftly to thine, in love's ecstatic sway.

I fondled thee! I drew thee to my heart,

Well knowing in the dark that joy is dumb.

And then a cry, a sigh, a sob, did come

Forth from thy lips.... I waken'd, with a start,

To find thee gone. The day had taken part

Against the total of my blisses’ sum.