À CLYMÈNE.
MYSTICAL strains unheard,
A song without a word,
Dearest, because thine eyes.
Pale as the skies,
Because thy voice, remote
As the far clouds that float
Veiling for me the whole
Heaven of the soul,
Because the stately scent
Of thy swan’s whiteness, blent
With the white lily’s bloom
Of thy perfume,
Ah! because thy dear love,
The music breathed above
By angels halo-crowned,
Odour and sound,
Hath, in my subtle heart,
With some mysterious art
Transposed thy harmony,
So let it be!
FROM ROMANCES SANS PAROLES.
TEARS in my heart that weeps,
Like the rain upon the town,
What drowsy languor steeps
In tears my heart that weeps?
O sweet sound of the rain
On earth and on the roofs!
For a heart’s weary pain
O the song of the rain!
Vain tears, vain tears, my heart!
What, none hath done thee wrong?
Tears without reason start,
From my disheartened heart.