Читать книгу Eyes of Youth - Various - Страница 2

Do not loose those rains thy wet

Eyes, my Fair, unsurely threat;

Do not, Sweet, do not so;

Thou canst not have a single woe,

But this sad and doubtful weatlier

Overcasts us both together.

In the aspect of those known eyes

My soul's a captain weatherwise.

Ah me! what presages it sees

In those watery Hyades.

The hunchèd camels of the night*

Trouble the bright

And silver waters of the moon.

The Maiden of the Morn will soon

Through Heaven stray and sing,

Star gathering.

Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,

Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!

And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.

Leave thy father, leave thy mother

And thy brother;

Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!

Am I not thy father and thy brother,

And thy mother?

And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tents

Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?

* The cloud-shapes often observed by travellers in the East.

Ariel to Miranda:—hear

This good-night the sea-winds bear;

And let thine unacquainted ear

Take grief for their interpreter.

Good-night; I have risen so high

Into slumber's rarity,

Not a dream can beat its feather

Through the unsustaining ether.

Let the sea-winds make avouch

How thunder summoned me to couch,

Tempest curtained me about

And turned the sun with his own hand out:

And though I toss upon my bed

My dream is not disquieted;

Nay, deep I sleep upon the deep,

And my eyes are wet, but I do not weep;

And I fell to sleep so suddenly

That my lips are moist yet—could'st thou see

With the good-night draught I have drunk to thee.

Thou can'st not wipe them; for it was Death

Damped my lips that has dried my breath.

A little while—it is not long—

The salt shall dry on them like the song.

Now know'st thou, that voice desolate,

Mourning ruined joy's estate,

Reached thee through a closing gate.

"Go'st thou to Plato?" Ah, girl, no!

It is to Pluto that I go.

O Lady Mary, thy bright crown

Is no mere crown of majesty;

For with the reflex of His own

Resplendent thorns Christ circled thee.

The red rose of this passion tide

Doth take a deeper hue from thee,

In the five Wounds of Jesus dyed,

And in Thy bleeding thoughts, Mary.

The soldier struck a triple stroke

That smote thy Jesus on the tree;

He broke the Heart of hearts, and broke

The Saint's and Mother's hearts in thee.

Thy Son went up the Angels' ways,

His passion ended; but, ah me!

Thou found'st the road of further days

A longer way of Calvary.

On the hard cross of hopes deferred

Thou hung'st in loving agony,

Until the mortal dreaded word,

Which chills our mirth, spake mirth to thee.

The Angel Death from this cold tomb

Of life did roll the stone away;

And He thou barest in thy womb

Caught thee at last into the day—

Before the living throne of Whom

The lights of heaven burning pray.

O thou who dwellest in the day,

Behold, I pace amidst the gloom:

Darkness is ever round my way,

With little space for sunbeam room.

Yet Christian sadness is divine,

Even as thy patient sadness was:

The salt tears in our life's dark wine

Fell in it from the saving Cross.

Bitter the bread of our repast;

Yet doth a sweet the bitter leaven:

Our sorrow is the shadow cast

Around it by the light of Heaven.

O Light in light, shine down from Heaven!