VIII

Yet it was plain she struggled, and that salt
Of righteous feeling made her pitiful.
Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful!
Where came the cleft between us? whose the fault?
My tears are on thee, that have rarely dropped
As balm for any bitter wound of mine:
My breast will open for thee at a sign!
But, no: we are two reed-pipes, coarsely stopped:
The God once filled them with his mellow breath;
And they were music till he flung them down,
Used! used! Hear now the discord-loving clown

VII

She issues radiant from her dressing-room,
Like one prepared to scale an upper sphere:
— By stirring up a lower, much I fear!
How deftly that oiled barber lays his bloom!
That long-shanked dapper Cupid with frisked curls,
Can make known women torturingly fair;
The gold-eyed serpent dwelling in rich hair,
Awakes beneath his magic whisks and twirls.
His art can take the eyes from out my head,
Until I see with eyes of other men;
While deeper knowledge crouches in its den,

IV

All other joys of life he strove to warm,
And magnify, and catch them to his lip:
But they had suffered shipwreck with the ship,
And gazed upon him sallow from the storm.
Of if Delusion came, 'twas but to show
The coming minute mock the one that went.
Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent,
Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe:
Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars,
Is always watching with a wondering hate.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate,

II

It ended, and the morrow brought the task.
Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in
By shutting all too zealous for their sin:
Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.
But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had!
He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers:
A languid humour stole among the hours,
And if their smiles encountered, he went mad
And raged deep inward, till the light was brown
Before his vision, and the world forgot,
Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.

How long shall in mine affliction mourne,
A burthen to my selfe, distrest in minde?
When shall my interdicted hopes returne
From out dispaire wherein they live confin'd?
When shall her troubled brow, charg'd with disdaine,
Reveale the treasure which her smyles impart?
When shall my faith the happines attaine,
To breake the Ise that hath congeald her hart?
Unto herselfe, herselfe my love doth sommon,
(If love in her hath any power to move)
And let her tell me as shee is a woman,
Whether my faith hath not deserv'd her love.

Since the first looke that led me to this error,
To this thoughts-maze, to my confusion tending,
Still have I liv'd in griefe, in hope, in terror,
The circle of my sorrowes never ending,
Yet cannot leave her love that holds me hatefull;
Her eyes exact it, though her hart disdaines me:
See what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful;
So true and loyall love no favour gaines mee.
Still must I whet my young desires abated
Upon the Flint of such a hart rebelling;
And all in vaine; her pride is so innated,

Those snary locks are those same nets (my Deere)
Where-with my libertie thou didst surprize:
Love was the flame that fired me so neere;
The Dart transpearsing were those Christall eyes.
Strong is the net and fervent is the flame;
Deepe is the wounde, my sighes doe well report:
Yet doe I love, adore, and praise the same
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.

My spotlesse love hoovers with purest wings
About the temple of the proudest frame,
Where blaze those lights, fayrest of earthly things,
Which cleer our clowded world with brightest flame.
M'ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,
Affect no honour but what she can give:
My hopes doe rest in limits of her grace;
I weigh no comfort unlesse she relieve
For she that can my hart imparadize,
Holds in her fairest hand what deerest is:
My fortune's wheele's the circle of her eyes,
Whose rowling grace deigne once a turne of blis.

If thys be love, to draw a weary breath,
Paint on floods, till the shore, cry to th'ayre;
With downward lookes still reading on the earth
The sad memorials of my love's despayre:
If this be love, to warre against my soule,
Lye downe to waile, rise up to sigh and grieve;
The never-resting stone of care to roule,
Still to complaine my griefes, whilst none relieve:
If this be love, to cloathe me with darke thoughts,
Haunting untroden pathes to waile apart;
My pleasures, horror; Musique, tragick notes;

The world is ours again —
Ours is the heavenly rout —
For, as the healing rain
Freshens the rose,
Sadness has made us whole
After the bitter drought,
And the despairing soul
Blossoms and glows.
Sing, heart, sing, lips, sing, promise of the morrow,
Love is not Love that has not tasted sorrow.

All, all is ours again —
The hour with wonder fraught —
The passions near to pain
We feel anew;