The Love-Tryst.
SSEVEN sycamores of wondrous fairness, smooth,And mealy green of trunk, and murmurousIn multitudinous sun-twinkling leaves,This valley grace. Three fairer than the rest,Which in the silent worship of my heartI fondly call the brothers of Bridgend,O’er cottage floors when doors are wide for heatAnd often on the face of cradled child,Throw dusky shadows. And when lenient windsBlow motion, the cool shadows flicker, and playUpon the floors, and glimpse the countenanceOf the sweet baby, till the mother laughs,And bending downward, kisses. But of allThe trees that ever tufted hill or vale,That ever took the breeze or sheltered nest,Or rung with flowing melody of birds,The strangest and the dearest, best and first,Waves audibly upon a windy hillAbove the Luggie. In the front of Spring,When the first crocus gleams among the grass,One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare:And when the Autumn violet hath lostIts fragrance, and the meadow-hay is mown,One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare.There are two trees, whose marriageable boughsTwine, each with each, and throw a common shade,A chestnut and an elm. The former opesIts oily buds whene’er the teeming southBreathes life and warm intenerating balm,But fades in early Autumn; while supremeIn vigorous development, the elmFull-foliaged glimmers till October’s end.At the twin roots and facing the rich westA summer seat is rustically carved,A sylvan shelter from the mid-day sun:But nor in mid-day, nor when decent eveGather her purples have I rested there;But when thro’ crisp and fleecy clouds the moonO’er the soft orient sheds a milder dawn,Then tripping up the dewy lea, with stepLight as an antelope, a maiden came,And all her radiance in my bosom laid;And on this seat, while high among the leavesRain murmured, and the glory of the moonWas dimmed, I whispered all my passion-tale.Ah me, ah me! her silken hair down-slid,Her smooth comb dropt among the grass, and bothStooped searching, and her burning cheek met mine:And starting suddenly upward, with her faceRosed to the beating temples, meek she gazed,Half sad, and the blue languish of her eyesDrooped tearful. And in madness and delight,I with my left arm zoned her little waist,And with my right hand smoothed the silken hairFrom her fair brow, snow-cold; and, by the dovesThat bill and coo in Venus’ pearly car!There was a touch of lips. Then creeping closeInto my bosom like a little thingThat was confused, she cradled pantingly.Thus, while the rain was murmuring overhead,And the out-passioned moon thro’ vaporous gloomDipt queenly, whispered I my perilous tale.Ah me, ah me! a tender answer came;For with her softling finger-tips she touchedMy hand, warm laid upon her heart, and pressedA meek approval with averted face.O poet-maker, darling love, sweet love,Awakener of manhood, and the lifeOf life. But let me not like talking foolPrate all thy virgin whiteness, all thy sweetDeliciousness, for thou art living yet!And as the rose that opens to the sunIts downy leaves, scents sweetest at the core,So all thy loveliness is but the robeThat clothes a maiden chastity of soul.O hasten, hasten down your azure road,And darken all the golden zones of heaven,Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.
SSEVEN sycamores of wondrous fairness, smooth,And mealy green of trunk, and murmurousIn multitudinous sun-twinkling leaves,This valley grace. Three fairer than the rest,Which in the silent worship of my heartI fondly call the brothers of Bridgend,O’er cottage floors when doors are wide for heatAnd often on the face of cradled child,Throw dusky shadows. And when lenient windsBlow motion, the cool shadows flicker, and playUpon the floors, and glimpse the countenanceOf the sweet baby, till the mother laughs,And bending downward, kisses. But of allThe trees that ever tufted hill or vale,That ever took the breeze or sheltered nest,Or rung with flowing melody of birds,The strangest and the dearest, best and first,Waves audibly upon a windy hillAbove the Luggie. In the front of Spring,When the first crocus gleams among the grass,One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare:And when the Autumn violet hath lostIts fragrance, and the meadow-hay is mown,One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare.There are two trees, whose marriageable boughsTwine, each with each, and throw a common shade,A chestnut and an elm. The former opesIts oily buds whene’er the teeming southBreathes life and warm intenerating balm,But fades in early Autumn; while supremeIn vigorous development, the elmFull-foliaged glimmers till October’s end.At the twin roots and facing the rich westA summer seat is rustically carved,A sylvan shelter from the mid-day sun:But nor in mid-day, nor when decent eveGather her purples have I rested there;But when thro’ crisp and fleecy clouds the moonO’er the soft orient sheds a milder dawn,Then tripping up the dewy lea, with stepLight as an antelope, a maiden came,And all her radiance in my bosom laid;And on this seat, while high among the leavesRain murmured, and the glory of the moonWas dimmed, I whispered all my passion-tale.Ah me, ah me! her silken hair down-slid,Her smooth comb dropt among the grass, and bothStooped searching, and her burning cheek met mine:And starting suddenly upward, with her faceRosed to the beating temples, meek she gazed,Half sad, and the blue languish of her eyesDrooped tearful. And in madness and delight,I with my left arm zoned her little waist,And with my right hand smoothed the silken hairFrom her fair brow, snow-cold; and, by the dovesThat bill and coo in Venus’ pearly car!There was a touch of lips. Then creeping closeInto my bosom like a little thingThat was confused, she cradled pantingly.Thus, while the rain was murmuring overhead,And the out-passioned moon thro’ vaporous gloomDipt queenly, whispered I my perilous tale.Ah me, ah me! a tender answer came;For with her softling finger-tips she touchedMy hand, warm laid upon her heart, and pressedA meek approval with averted face.O poet-maker, darling love, sweet love,Awakener of manhood, and the lifeOf life. But let me not like talking foolPrate all thy virgin whiteness, all thy sweetDeliciousness, for thou art living yet!And as the rose that opens to the sunIts downy leaves, scents sweetest at the core,So all thy loveliness is but the robeThat clothes a maiden chastity of soul.O hasten, hasten down your azure road,And darken all the golden zones of heaven,Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.
SSEVEN sycamores of wondrous fairness, smooth,And mealy green of trunk, and murmurousIn multitudinous sun-twinkling leaves,This valley grace. Three fairer than the rest,Which in the silent worship of my heartI fondly call the brothers of Bridgend,O’er cottage floors when doors are wide for heatAnd often on the face of cradled child,Throw dusky shadows. And when lenient windsBlow motion, the cool shadows flicker, and playUpon the floors, and glimpse the countenanceOf the sweet baby, till the mother laughs,And bending downward, kisses. But of allThe trees that ever tufted hill or vale,That ever took the breeze or sheltered nest,Or rung with flowing melody of birds,The strangest and the dearest, best and first,Waves audibly upon a windy hillAbove the Luggie. In the front of Spring,When the first crocus gleams among the grass,One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare:And when the Autumn violet hath lostIts fragrance, and the meadow-hay is mown,One half shines out full-leaved, the other bare.There are two trees, whose marriageable boughsTwine, each with each, and throw a common shade,A chestnut and an elm. The former opesIts oily buds whene’er the teeming southBreathes life and warm intenerating balm,But fades in early Autumn; while supremeIn vigorous development, the elmFull-foliaged glimmers till October’s end.At the twin roots and facing the rich westA summer seat is rustically carved,A sylvan shelter from the mid-day sun:But nor in mid-day, nor when decent eveGather her purples have I rested there;But when thro’ crisp and fleecy clouds the moonO’er the soft orient sheds a milder dawn,Then tripping up the dewy lea, with stepLight as an antelope, a maiden came,And all her radiance in my bosom laid;And on this seat, while high among the leavesRain murmured, and the glory of the moonWas dimmed, I whispered all my passion-tale.Ah me, ah me! her silken hair down-slid,Her smooth comb dropt among the grass, and bothStooped searching, and her burning cheek met mine:And starting suddenly upward, with her faceRosed to the beating temples, meek she gazed,Half sad, and the blue languish of her eyesDrooped tearful. And in madness and delight,I with my left arm zoned her little waist,And with my right hand smoothed the silken hairFrom her fair brow, snow-cold; and, by the dovesThat bill and coo in Venus’ pearly car!There was a touch of lips. Then creeping closeInto my bosom like a little thingThat was confused, she cradled pantingly.Thus, while the rain was murmuring overhead,And the out-passioned moon thro’ vaporous gloomDipt queenly, whispered I my perilous tale.Ah me, ah me! a tender answer came;For with her softling finger-tips she touchedMy hand, warm laid upon her heart, and pressedA meek approval with averted face.O poet-maker, darling love, sweet love,Awakener of manhood, and the lifeOf life. But let me not like talking foolPrate all thy virgin whiteness, all thy sweetDeliciousness, for thou art living yet!And as the rose that opens to the sunIts downy leaves, scents sweetest at the core,So all thy loveliness is but the robeThat clothes a maiden chastity of soul.
S
O hasten, hasten down your azure road,And darken all the golden zones of heaven,Bright Sun, for I am weary for my love.