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Themes and Variations
Thrice-folded in the garden’s leafy close.
A ridge of moorland showed above the wall;
The east wind blew (tho’ June’s door stood ajar),
And swept the tulips into twinkling waves;
Lifted the lids of hidden spicy stores,
Shook out the pitchers of the honey-vine,
And disarrayed the prim carnation beds.
The old grey house—a wall of braided bloom,
A girl’s scarf flitting thro’ the linden shade—
This bunch of lilacs, plucked within the hour,
And the same voice and presence there as now.
Was it all a dream, or am I now awake?
Sometimes she spoke of litttle trifling things
Long past; and asked me had I quite forgot?
With half a sigh,—I answered cheerfully.
A ridge of moorland showed above the wall;
The east wind blew (tho’ June’s door stood ajar),
And swept the tulips into twinkling waves;
Lifted the lids of hidden spicy stores,
Shook out the pitchers of the honey-vine,
And disarrayed the prim carnation beds.
The old grey house—a wall of braided bloom,
A girl’s scarf flitting thro’ the linden shade—
This bunch of lilacs, plucked within the hour,
And the same voice and presence there as now.
Was it all a dream, or am I now awake?
Sometimes she spoke of litttle trifling things
Long past; and asked me had I quite forgot?
With half a sigh,—I answered cheerfully.
It may be that the Baroness finds it dull
At times, perhaps, even in her palmiest days;
We cannot always summon joy at will—
He is a rover: wild as any hawk,
And will not live, the song-bird of the breast,
Save where it pleases him to stoop and build.
Bright-wingèd traveller of a fairer sky!—
Perhaps she thinks that old-world comedy
That once we played might serve to pass the hour:
We have rehearsed it well! It should be smooth—
But not the same!—once is enough for me.
At times, perhaps, even in her palmiest days;
We cannot always summon joy at will—
He is a rover: wild as any hawk,
And will not live, the song-bird of the breast,
Save where it pleases him to stoop and build.
Bright-wingèd traveller of a fairer sky!—
Perhaps she thinks that old-world comedy
That once we played might serve to pass the hour:
We have rehearsed it well! It should be smooth—
But not the same!—once is enough for me.
Now, Esther, let this dark thought pass away
That floats between us, like a grasping cloud;
Trust me, I seek no other eyes but yours.
That floats between us, like a grasping cloud;
Trust me, I seek no other eyes but yours.
Far from the coast, and hidden misty capes,
As night draws on I hear a gathering sound.
As night draws on I hear a gathering sound.