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Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest

Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge

High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet - from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark

morn

The panther's roar came muffled, while I

sat

Low in the valley. Never, never more. Shall lone Oenone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling

stars.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens,

Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her,

The Abominable, that uninvited came
Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall,
And cast the golden fruit upon the board,
And bred this change; that I might speak
my mind,

And tell her to her face how much I hate
Her presence, hated both of Gods and

men.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,

In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?

Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears?
O happy tears, and how unlike to these!
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my
face?

O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight?

O death, death, death, thou ever-floating

cloud,

There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more,

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A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass,

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light.

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.

And while the world runs round and round,' I said,

'Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade

Sleeps on his luminous ring.'

To which my soul made answer readily: 'Trust me, in bliss I shall abide

In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide.'

Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,

In each a squared lawn, where from The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth

A flood of fountain-foam.

And round the cool green courts there ran

a row

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery

That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky

Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one swell

Across the mountain stream❜d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell. Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up

A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, 'And who shall gaze upon

My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?'

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,

And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires.

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And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon.

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,

Beneath the windy wall.

And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,

The ragged rims of thunder brooding. low,

With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind.

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags,

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,

And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home-grey twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind,

Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,

Not less than truth design'd.

*

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
An angel look'd at her.

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise,
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
that said, We wait for thee.

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,

And watch'd by weeping queens.

Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king
to hear

Of wisdom and of law.

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
A summer fann'd with spice.

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand
grasp'd

The mild bull's golden horn.

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
Above the pillar'd town.

Nor these alone: but every legend fair
Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
Not less than life, design'd.

* * * *

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,

Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men 1 hung

The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,

And somewhat grimly smiled.
And there the Ionian father of the rest;
A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.
Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale

Of this wide world, the times of every land

So wrought, they will not fail.

The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
The heads and crowns of kings;

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind

All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined,

And trusted any cure.

But over these she trod: and those great bells

Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone.

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame
Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam,
The first of those who know.

And all those names, that in their motion

were

Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair

In diverse raiment strange:

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,

Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew

Rivers of melodies.

No nightingale delighteth to prolong
Her low preamble all alone,

More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
Throb thro' the ribbed stone;

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,

Joying to feel herself alive,

Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,

Lord of the senses five;

Communing with herself: 'All these are mine,

And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me.' She - when young night divine

Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems,

To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,

'I marvel if my still delight

In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
Be flatter'd to the height.

'O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
My Gods, with whom I dwell!

isolation

'O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine

That range on yonder plain.

palan

'In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep.'

Then of the moral instinct would she prate, And of the rising from the dead,

As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; And at the last she said:

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'I take possession of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl.

I sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all.'

* * *

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,

Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
And intellectual throne.

And so she throve and prosper'd: so three

years

She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,

Struck thro' with pangs of hell.

Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
Plagued her with sore despair.

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight,

The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote 'Mene, mene,' and divided quite The kingdom of her thought.

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude

Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood

Laughter at her self-scorn.

'What! is not this my place of strength,' she said,

'My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid

Since my first memory?'

But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes; and unawares

On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,

And horrible nightmares,

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she

came,

That stood aginst the wall.

A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal.

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand;

Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land

Their moon-led waters white.

A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw

The hollow orb of moving Circum Roll'd round by one fix'd law. Back on herself her serpent pri curl'd.

'No voice,' she shriek'd in that lo 'No voice breaks thro' the stillness world:

One deep, deep silence all!' She, mouldering with the dull mouldering sod,

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful sham Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name;

And death and life she hated_equal And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternit No comfort anywhere;

Remaining utterly confused with fea And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears And all alone in crime:

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller wa slow,

In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the lo Moan of an unknown sea;

And knows not if it be thunder, or a s Of rocks thrown down, or one dee Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, 'I found

A new land, but I die.'

She howl'd aloud, 'I am on fire withi

There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my si And save me lest I die?'

So when four years were wholly fini She threw her royal robes away. Make me a cottage in the vale,' she 'Where I may mourn and pray.

Yet pull not down my palace towers,

are

So lightly, beautifully built: Rerchance I may return with others When I have purged my guilt.'

THE LOTOS-EATERS
[1832. Revised 1842]

'COURAGE!' he said, and pointed toward land,

'This mounting wave will roll us shore soon.'

In the afternoon they came unto a lan In which it seemed always afternoon.

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And all at once they sang, 'Our island home

Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.'

CHORIC SONG

I beautiful

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from
the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep,

And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

II

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings,

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm!'

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

III

Lo! in the middle of the wood,

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care.
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place.
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no
toil,

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

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