Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 83

     Whoe'er she be,

     That not impossible She

     That shall command my heart and me;

     Where'er she lie,

     Lock'd up from mortal eye

     In shady leaves of destiny:

     Till that ripe birth

     Of studied Fate stand forth,

     And teach her fair steps to our earth;

     Till that divine

     Idea take a shrine

     Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

     —Meet you her, my Wishes,

     Bespeak her to my blisses,

     And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.

     I wish her beauty,

     That owes not all its duty

     To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:

     Something more than

     Taffata or tissue can,

     Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

     A face that's best

     By its own beauty drest,

     And can alone command the rest:

     A face made up

     Out of no other shop

     Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

     Sydneian showers

     Of sweet discourse, whose powers

     Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

     Whate'er delight

     Can make day's forehead bright

     Or give down to the wings of night.

     Soft silken hours,

     Open suns, shady bowers;

     'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

     Days, that need borrow

     No part of their good morrow

     From a fore-spent night of sorrow:

     Days, that in spite

     Of darkness, by the light

     Of a clear mind are day all night.

     Life, that dares send

     A challenge to his end,

     And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."

     I wish her store

     Of worth may leave her poor

     Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

     —Now, if Time knows

     That Her, whose radiant brows

     Weave them a garland of my vows;

     Her that dares be

     What these lines wish to see;

     I seek no further, it is She.

     'Tis She, and here

     Lo! I unclothe and clear

     My wishes' cloudy character.

     Such worth as this is

     Shall fix my flying wishes,

     And determine them to kisses.

     Let her full glory,

     My fancies, fly before ye;

     Be ye my fictions:—but her story.