When she speaks, her girlish voice
Makes a very pleasant noise,
Like a brook that hums along
Under leaves an undersong:
When she sings, her voice is clear,
Like the waters swerving sheer,
In the sunlight magical,
Down a ringing fall.
Here her spirit came to dwell
From the passionate Israfel;
One of those great songs of his
Rounded to a soul like this;
And when she seems so strange at even,
He must be singing in the heaven;
When she wears that charméd smile,
Listening, listening all the while,
She is stirred with kindred things,
Starry fire and sweeping wings,
And the seraph’s sobbing strings.
AT THE LATTICE
Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes,
A tender touch on either lid;
They cover, as a cloud, the skies
Where like a star your soul lies hid.
My love is like a fire that flows,
This touch will leave a tiny scar,
I’ll claim you by it for my rose,
My rose, my own, where’er you are.
And when you bind your hair, and when
You lie within your silken nest,
This kiss will visit you again,
You will not rest, my love, you will not rest.