THE RECOLLECTION.

And soothed by every azure breath
That under heaven is blown
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own:

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
Like green waves on the sea
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean-woods may be.

How calm it was!-the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seem'd from the remotest seat
Of the wide mountain waste

To the soft flower beneath our feet
A magic circle traced,

A spirit interfused around,

A thrilling silent life;

To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife;—

And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there

Was one fair Form that fill'd with love

The lifeless atmosphere.

We paused beside the pools that lie

Under the forest bough;

Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky

Gulf'd in a world below;

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264

A PARTING IN DREAMLAND.

A PARTING IN DREAMLAND.

Αδιστος ἀφεμένων.

AMONG the poppies by the well
Of Lethe, where I weary lay,
Upon my soul a slumber fell,

Making the light of summer grey;
Nepenthe too I ate of him,

Whose eyes were eyes of Seraphim.

But ere I slept, while still it seemed
That sleep was a delicious thing,
The splendour of a vision streamed

Above the poppy-heads that fling
Their drowsy juice and drowsy scent
Through blood and brain with ravishment.

For there He stood whose eyes are eyes
Of Seraphim: and lo! his lips

Seemed quivering with the winds of sighs;
And all his forehead in eclipse

Burned not, but showered well-heads of tears
Amid the deserts of dead years.

Yea, and his heart fed living fire;

And both his cheeks like ashes wan

Were cinders of a spent desire

For lack of food to feed upon:

Therewith the Spirit smiled and spake

Words sweet as breath from buds that break:

A PARTING IN DREAMLAND.

"I go; take now, dear soul, thy rest; Slumber beneath the poppy-flowers! The mole within her winter nest

Be not so folded from sad hours As thou, who of the thought of me Eatest Nepenthé wearily.

"I go; but when thy dream is o'er,

When thou awakest cold perchance,
And haply from sleep's golden door
Gazest upon the drear expanse
Of barren years and vacant life
And long monotony of strife,

"Think then of me: though hence I go;

Though I am withered, worn, and old,
With waiting, praying, weeping through
Long days that shiver in the cold
Of thy scant love-yet will I come,
And, when thou callest, bear thee home."

He spake; and fire with sudden pain

Flashed in his face.

Then slumber fell

Upon my lids like summer rain;

And through faint dreams the terrible Flame of that head, of those wild eyes, Died; and my sleep was Paradise.

J. A. Symonds.

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262

THE RECOLLECTION.

A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,

More boundless than the depth of night
And purer than the day—

In which the lovely forests grew
As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.

There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views which in our world above

Can never well be seen
Were imaged by the water's love

Of that fair forest green:
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,

An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.

Like one beloved, the scene had lent

To the dark water's breast

Its every leaf and lineament

With more than truth exprest;
Until an envious wind crept by,

Like an unwelcome thought
Which from the mind's too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.

-Though Thou art ever fair and kind,

The forests ever green,

Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind

Than calm in waters seen!

P. B. Shelley.

LOVE HOUSELESS.

263

LOVE HOUSELESS.

I.

THE cold earth slept below;

Above, the cold sky shone;
And all around,

With a chilling sound,

From caves of ice and fields of snow
The breath of night like death did flow
Beneath the sinking moon.

2.

The wintry hedge was black;
The green grass was not seen;
The birds did rest

On the bare thorn's breast,

Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.

3.

Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light.

As a fen-fire's beam

On a sluggish stream

Gleams dimly, so the moon shone there;

And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair,
That shook in the wind of night.

4.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;

The wind made thy bosom chill;

The night did shed

On thy dear head

Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie

Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
Might visit thee at will.

P. B. Shelley.