AND THESE—ARE THESE INDEED THE END?
AND these—are these indeed the end,
This grinning skull, this heavy loam?
Do all green ways whereby we wend
Lead but to yon ignoble home?
Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;
Thy lips are hives of summer still.
I ask not other worlds while this
Proffers me all the sweets I will.
William Watson.
A DREAM.
BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear:
Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,
Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how
Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.
“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;
’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;
A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,
Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”
Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!
I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;
I heard wild wordless melodies of love,
Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;
And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,
I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.
Theodore Watts.
THE FIRST KISS.
IF only in dreams may man be fully blest,
Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?
Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam,
And miles of furze shine golden down the West?
I seem to clasp her still,—still on my breast
Her bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam:
I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem
Scarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d!
Yon thicket’s breath—can that be eglantine?
Those birds—can they be morning’s choristers?
Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze?
Like burning bushes fired of God they shine!
I seem to know them, though this body of mine
Pass’d into spirit at the touch of hers.
Theodore Watts.