Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/To a Young Lady
To a Young Lady.
The moon's full splendour on the waveless sea;—
A towering lily sleeping in the night,
Lulled by the music of the honey-bee;—
A rose, dew-laden, bending to the night,
Faint with a sense of its own ecstasy;—
A proud, white lotus, floating on a lake;—
A tall magnolia;—a violet, small,
But so intensely sweet, that it doth take
The full sense like a passion;—Lady, all
That I behold, of calm, rich, natural grace,
Disturbs me less with joy than gazing on that face.
A towering lily sleeping in the night,
Lulled by the music of the honey-bee;—
A rose, dew-laden, bending to the night,
Faint with a sense of its own ecstasy;—
A proud, white lotus, floating on a lake;—
A tall magnolia;—a violet, small,
But so intensely sweet, that it doth take
The full sense like a passion;—Lady, all
That I behold, of calm, rich, natural grace,
Disturbs me less with joy than gazing on that face.
All blessings be upon thee, lady! though
They cannot make thee richer than thou art,
Need we wish peace for one who ne'er can know
Its opposite? Ask calmness for a heart.
Calm as the deepening light of summer eyes,
Or sound of rills that, o'er their pebbled way,
Murmur, harmonious with the rustling leaves,
A soft quietus to the fading day?
Call melody to lips that only meet
To breathe forth sounds, so musically sweet
That all the honeyed syllables they say
Dance to the heart like marriage-bells in May.
They cannot make thee richer than thou art,
Need we wish peace for one who ne'er can know
Its opposite? Ask calmness for a heart.
Calm as the deepening light of summer eyes,
Or sound of rills that, o'er their pebbled way,
Murmur, harmonious with the rustling leaves,
A soft quietus to the fading day?
Call melody to lips that only meet
To breathe forth sounds, so musically sweet
That all the honeyed syllables they say
Dance to the heart like marriage-bells in May.
What spirit in thy bosom's rise may dwell,
What the bright forms that animate thy sleep,
Or minister by day, or lend their spell
To guard those eyes from sorrow when they weep,
What fit expression for the dreams that lie,
Shrined in the light (that we must feel not see),
Brightening the world of passion in thine eye;—
All these are things that Poesy defy,
To put them into words, yet cannot die
But live for ever! Beauty is but breath;
These are immortal, beautifying Death!
What the bright forms that animate thy sleep,
Or minister by day, or lend their spell
To guard those eyes from sorrow when they weep,
What fit expression for the dreams that lie,
Shrined in the light (that we must feel not see),
Brightening the world of passion in thine eye;—
All these are things that Poesy defy,
To put them into words, yet cannot die
But live for ever! Beauty is but breath;
These are immortal, beautifying Death!