I
This weak and silken love that meshes me
Break strand from strand, O branches of the hill!
Brave wind that whips me breathless, tear me free!
The witch’s cobweb clings and shivers still.
Now ferns there were, and fretted sun above:
I plunged me where the silver water fell,
But could not drown the little singing love—
The little love that murmured like a shell.
Swift, swift, to drink my freedom at its flood,
I ran with flying feet and lips apart,
But love was wilder than my leaping blood—
Ah, louder than the beating of my heart.
II
I MUST not yield ... but if he would not sing!
My stilling hands upon my breast can feel
Its answer tremble like a muted string.
Below the vaulted window where I kneel.
He sings, he sings, to stars and listening skies.
A white and haunted place my garden seems.—
I see the pleading beauty of his eyes
As faces glimmer in a pool of dreams.
So wooing wind might sweep a harp awake.
(Oh, muting fingers on each quivering string!)
I must not yield ... I think my heart will break.
Mother of Heaven, if he would not sing!