And now I have face, hair, and eyes;
And lo, the Woman that these make
Is more than flower, and sun, and skies!
Her slender fingers seem to take
My whole fair life, as ’twere a bowl,
Wherein she pours me forth her soul,
And bids me drink it for her sake.
Methinks the world becomes an isle;
And there—immortal, as it seems—
I gaze upon her face, whose smile
Flows round the world in golden streams:
Ah, Death is digging for me deep,
Lest some day I should need to sleep
And solace me with other dreams!
But now I feel as though a kiss
Of hers should ever give me birth
In some new heaven of life-long bliss;
And heedlessly, athwart my mirth,
I see Death digging day by day
A grave; and, very far away,
I hear the falling of the earth.
Ho there, if thou wilt wait for me
Thou Death!—I say—keep in thy shade;
Crouch down behind the willow tree,
Lest thou shouldst make my love afraid;
If thou hast aught with me, pale friend,
Some flitting leaf its sigh shall lend
To tell me when the grave is made!
And lo, e’en while I now rejoice,
Encircled by my love’s fair arm,
There cometh up to me a voice,
Yea, through the fragrance and the charm;
Quite like some sigh the forest heaves
Quite soft—a murmur of dead leaves,
And not a voice that bodeth harm:
O lover, fear not—have thou joy;
For life and love are in thy hands:
I seek in no wise to destroy
The peace thou hast, nor make the sands
Run quicker through thy pleasant span;
Blest art thou above many a man,
And fair is She who with thee stands:
I only keep for thee out here—
O far away, as thou hast said,
Among the willow trees—a clear
Soft space for slumber, and a bed;
That after all, if life be vain,
And love turn at the last to pain,
Thou mayst have ease when thou art dead.
O grieve not: back to thy love’s lips
Let her embrace thee more and more,
Consume that sweet of hers in sips:
I only wait till it is o’er;
For fear thou’lt weary of her kiss,
And come to need a bed like this
Where none shall kiss thee evermore.
Believe each pleasant muttered vow
She makes to thee, and see with ease
Each promised heaven before thee now;
I only think, if one of these
Should fail thee—O thou wouldst need then
To come away right far from men,
And weep beneath the willow trees.
And, therefore, have I made this place,
Where thou shouldst come on that hard day,
Full of a sad and weary grace;
For here the drear wind hath its way
With grass, and flowers, and withered tree—
As sorrow shall that day with thee,
If it should happen as I say.