Then, flushed with resolution, I told all;— The mighty love I bore her,—how would pall My very breath of life, if she For ever breathed not hers with me;— Could I a cherub be,
How, idly hoping to enrich her grace, I would snatch jewels from the orbs of space;— Then back thro' the vague distance beat, Glowing with joy her smile to meet, And heap them round her feet.
Her waist shook to my arm. She bowed her head, Silent, with hands clasped and arms straightened: (Just then we both heard a church bell) O God! It is not right to tell: But I remember well
Each breast swelled with its pleasure, and her whole Bosom grew heavy with love; the swift roll Of new sensations dimmed her eyes, Half closing them in ecstasies, Turned full against the skies.
The rest is gone; it seemed a whirling round— No pressure of my feet upon the ground: But even when parted from her, bright Showed all; yea, to my throbbing sight The dark was starred with light.
Of My Lady In Death
All seems a painted show. I look Up thro' the bloom that's shed By leaves above my head, And feel the earnest life forsook All being, when she died:— My heart halts, hot and dried As the parched course where once a brook Thro' fresh growth used to flow,— Because her past is now No more than stories in a printed book.
The grass has grown above that breast, Now cold and sadly still, My happy face felt thrill:— Her mouth's mere tones so much expressed! Those lips are now close set,— Lips which my own have met; Her eyelids by the earth are pressed; Damp earth weighs on her eyes; Damp earth shuts out the skies. My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.
To see her slim perfection sweep, Trembling impatiently, With eager gaze at me! Her feet spared little things that creep:— “We've no more right,” she'd say, “In this the earth than they.” Some remember it but to weep. Her hand's slight weight was such, Care lightened with its touch; My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.
My day-dreams hovered round her brow; Now o'er its perfect forms Go softly real worms. Stern death, it was a cruel blow, To cut that sweet girl's life Sharply, as with a knife. Cursed life that lets me live and grow, Just as a poisonous root, From which rank blossoms shoot; My lady's laid so very, very low.