VIII
| To you, let snow and roses And golden locks belong. These are the world’s enslavers, Let these delight the throng. For her of duskier lustre Whose favour still I wear, The snow be in her kirtle, The rose be in her hair! The hue of highland rivers Careering, full and cool, From sable on to golden, From rapid on to pool— The hue of heather-honey, The hue of honey-bees, Shall tinge her golden shoulder, Shall gild her tawny knees. |
IX
| Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams, Beauty awake from rest! Let Beauty awake For Beauty’s sake In the hour when the birds awake in the brake And the stars are bright in the west! Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day, Awake in the crimson eve! In the day’s dusk end When the shades ascend, Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend To render again and receive! |
X
| I know not how it is with you— I love the first and last, The whole field of the present view, The whole flow of the past. One tittle of the things that are, Nor you should change nor I— One pebble in our path—one star In all our heaven of sky. Our lives, and every day and hour, One symphony appear: One road, one garden—every flower And every bramble dear. |
XI
| I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. |