Читать книгу The Ring of Amethyst - Alice Wellington Rollins - Страница 3
ОглавлениеTHE RING.——TO GEORGE ELIOT.
As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee,
Refused to wear in careless ornament
The amethysts and emeralds that lent
Their charm to other women;—even as she,
Turning one day by chance the golden key
Of their close casket, started as they sent
Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent
To lift them in her white hands lovingly;—
* * * * *
O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand
In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring
Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,—
Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing!
Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring,
Take it one little moment in thy hand!
THE BOOK.——To D.M.R.
Dear, if this little book of thine and mine
Could bring me fame as glorious and rare
As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair
For Dorothea,——it were less divine
A gift than this most priceless love of thine.
Since, then, that came to me, why now despair
Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear
Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign
Of any proud desert. Yet if I might
Not find that love could keep its holy tryst
With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright
New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst:
The memory of that day when love first kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write!
Ἀμέθυστος
TO THE CRITIC.
I know full well I cannot pour for you
The nectar of the gods;—no epic wine
Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine
Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew
In the young vineyards when the world was new,
And only poets wrote;—a slender vine
You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine,
From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew.
Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed
The lyric loveliness of some who write,
The passionate fervor and the keen delight
Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,—
Think it may be, not that the gift is slight,
But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst!
NARCISSUS.
TO THE READER.
If haply in these pages you should read
Aught that seems true to human nature, true
To heavenly instincts;—if they speak to you
Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed,
Of doubt, of hope, of longing,—or indeed
Of any pain or joy the poet knew
A heart could feel,—think not to find a clue
To his own heart—its gladness or its need.
From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown
The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass,
Bending to look down through the tall wild grass,
By winds of heaven faintly overblown,
Should start to see there, dimly in a glass,
Some face,——’tis not the poet’s, but their own!
PROEM.
I wonder, little book, if after all
I greatly care whether with praise or blame
Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame
Had made me wonder what fate should befall
My first faint singing; now I cannot call
The singing mine; I gave it him who came
To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim
Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall
Of strong defence to me this blessedness:
That of his love I am so proudly sure,
Though the whole world should bend to my success,
I think he could not love me any more!
And though the whole world say my book is poor,
I know he will not love me any less!
