IV.
Thou mindest not; for hark!—again
Resounds thy racket
Shriller than before;
Singst thou this sad strain
As if befitting to thy ebon jacket,
With carvings curious,
And a color glossy,
Like old wine—
Tiny thing, be not so furious
And uneedful noisy;
Cease to pine
For something fled—for joys or hopes departed,
Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted,
O mourner most divine.
[IN PRAISE OF INEZ.]
Would that my feeble pen might pluck
From the green fields of poetry,
Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck
Thy name so near, so dear to me.
Would that my hand might gather here
From the sweet fields of tender thought,
Some blossom, fragrant as the rose,
Some lily, lovely as I ought.
But why should I commit a sin
By wishing any flower for thee;
Thou art more beautiful, I know,
Than all the flowers of poetry.
What shall I then with thee compare,
To make a true comparison—
The dawning day, the dying light,
The rising or the setting sun?
At morn I see the early sun
Appear with glory in her eye,
But looking there, I think of thee,
And thinking of thee, for thee sigh.
At noon I see that fervid orb
Proclaim the sultry hour of day,
But looking there, I think of thee,
And thinking of thee, turn away.
At length I see that same bright sun
Descend below the western blue,
Yet looking there, I think of thee,
And thinking of thee love thee, too.
Fade then, ye flowers of the field,
And sink, ye dying beams of light,
But let, O let my Inez be
Forever present to my sight.