Читать книгу The Unknown Eros - Coventry Patmore - Страница 7

   Perchance she droops within the hollow gulf

Which the great wave of coming pleasure draws,

Not guessing the glad cause!

Ye Clouds that on your endless journey go,

Ye Winds that westward flow,

Thou heaving Sea

That heav’st ’twixt her and me,

Tell her I come;

Then only sigh your pleasure, and be dumb;

For the sweet secret of our either self

We know.

Tell her I come,

And let her heart be still’d.

One day’s controlled hope, and then one more,

And on the third our lives shall be fulfill’d!

Yet all has been before:

Palm placed in palm, twin smiles, and words astray.

What other should we say?

But shall I not, with ne’er a sign, perceive,

Whilst her sweet hands I hold,

The myriad threads and meshes manifold

Which Love shall round her weave:

The pulse in that vein making alien pause

And varying beats from this;

Down each long finger felt, a differing strand

Of silvery welcome bland;

And in her breezy palm

And silken wrist,

Beneath the touch of my like numerous bliss

Complexly kiss’d,

A diverse and distinguishable calm?

What should we say!

It all has been before;

And yet our lives shall now be first fulfill’d,

And into their summ’d sweetness fall distill’d

One sweet drop more;

One sweet drop more, in absolute increase

Of unrelapsing peace.

   O, heaving Sea,

That heav’st as if for bliss of her and me,

And separatest not dear heart from heart,

Though each ’gainst other beats too far apart,

For yet awhile

Let it not seem that I behold her smile.

O, weary Love, O, folded to her breast,

Love in each moment years and years of rest,

Be calm, as being not.

Ye oceans of intolerable delight,

The blazing photosphere of central Night,

Be ye forgot.

Terror, thou swarthy Groom of Bride-bliss coy,

Let me not see thee toy.

O, Death, too tardy with thy hope intense

Of kisses close beyond conceit of sense;

O, Life, too liberal, while to take her hand

Is more of hope than heart can understand;

Perturb my golden patience not with joy,

Nor, through a wish, profane

The peace that should pertain

To him who does by her attraction move.

Has all not been before?

One day’s controlled hope, and one again,

And then the third, and ye shall have the rein,

O Life, Death, Terror, Love!

But soon let your unrestful rapture cease,

Ye flaming Ethers thin,

Condensing till the abiding sweetness win

One sweet drop more;

One sweet drop more in the measureless increase

Of honied peace.