'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,[160]
Came tirling at my door,
The image of a lovely lass
That haunts me evermore.
Beside my sleeping couch she stood,
And now she mars my rest;
Still as I try the solemn mood,
She hunts it from my breast.
At lecture and at study
That ankle white I span,
Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,—
A fay I seem to scan.
Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray
That dashes to the side,
Or like the silver-tail'd that play
Their gambols in the tide.
As heaps of snow on mountain brow
When shed the clouds their fleece,
Or churn of waves when tempest raves,
Thy swelling limbs in grace.
Thy eyes are black as berries,
Thy cheeks are waxen dyed,
And on thy temple tarries
The raven's dusk, my pride!
Gives light below each slim eye-brow
A swelling orb of blue,
In April meads so glance the beads,
In May the honey-dew.
Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap,
But sheaf-like, neatly bound
Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream
As bright thine ears around.
Those raven spires of hair, that fair,
That turret-bosom's shine!
False friends! from me that banish'd thee,
Who fain would call thee mine.
No lilts I spin, their love to win,
The viol strings I shun,
But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear
My wisdom, dearest one!