What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow
The world should listen then as I am listening now.
FROM 'EPIPSYCHIDION: VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY EMILIA VIVIANI, NOW. IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF ST. ANNE, PISA.'
Spouse! sister! angel! pilot of the fate
Whose course has been so starless! O too late
Beloved, O too soon adored, by me!
For in the fields of immortality
My spirit should at first have worshipped thine,
A divine presence in a place divine;
Or should have moved beside it on this earth, A shadow of that substance, from its birth: But not as now. I love thee; yes, I feel That on the fountain of my heart a seal Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight. We are we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar?
Such difference without discord as can make Those sweetest sounds in which all spirits shake, As trembling leaves in a continuous air.
Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wrecked. I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is that each one should select
Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion; though it is in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the world, and so With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go.
True love in this differs from gold and clay, That to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, Gazing on many truths; 'tis like thy light, Imagination, which from earth and sky, And from the depths of human fantasy, As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills The universe with glorious beams, and kills Error the worm with many a sunlike arrow Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow
The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates, One object and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity!
Mind from its object differs most in this; Evil from good; misery from happiness; The baser from the nobler; the impure And frail from what is clear and must endure. If you divide suffering and dross, you may Diminish till it is consumed away;
If you divide pleasure and love and thought, Each part exceeds the whole; and we know not How much, while any yet remains unshared, Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared. This truth is that deep well whence sages draw The unenvied light of hope; the eternal law By which those live to whom this world of life Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife Tills for the promise of a later birth
The wilderness of this elysian earth,
The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me! To whatsoe'er of dull mortality
Is mine remain a vestal sister still;
To the intense, the deep, the imperishable- Not mine, but me-henceforth be thou united, Even as a bride, delighting and delighted.
The hour is come :-the destined star has risen Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick set The sentinels-but true Love never yet Was thus constrained. It overleaps all fence: Like lightning, with invisible violence
Piercing its continents; like heaven's free breath, Which he who grasps can hold not; liker Death, Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way Through temple, tower, and palace, and the array Of arms. More strength has Love than he or they; For it can burst his charnel, and make free
The limbs in chains, the heart in agony,
The soul in dust and chaos.
A ship is floating in the harbour now; A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow; There is a path on the sea's azure floor,— No keel has ever ploughed that path before; The halcyons brood around the foamless isles; The treacherous ocean has forsworn its wiles; The merry mariners are bold and free: Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with me? Our bark is as an albatross whose nest
Is a far Eden of the purple east ;
And we between her wings will sit, while Night And Day and Storm and Calm pursue their flight, Our ministers, along the boundless sea, Treading each other's heels, unheededly.
It is an isle under Ionian skies,
Beautiful as a wreck of paradise ;
And, for the harbours are not safe and good,
This land would have remained a solitude
But for some pastoral people native there, Who from the elysian, clear, and golden air Draw the last spirit of the age of gold,— Simple and spirited, innocent and bold. The blue Ægean girds this chosen home, With ever-changing sound and light and foam Kissing the sifted sands and caverns hoar; And all the winds wandering along the shore Undulate with the undulating tide.
There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide ; And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond,
As clear as elemental diamond,
Or serene morning air. And far beyond,
The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer (Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year) Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls Illumining, with sound that never fails, Accompany the noonday nightingales.
And all the place is peopled with sweet airs. The light clear element which the isle wears Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers, Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers, And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep; And from the moss violets and jonquils peep, And dart their arrowy odour through the brain, Till you might faint with that delicious pain. And every motion, odour, beam, and tone, With that deep music is in unison : Which is a soul within the soul,-they seem Like echoes of an antenatal dream.
It is an isle 'twixt heaven, air, earth, and sea, Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity; Bright as that wandering Eden, Lucifer, Washed by the soft blue oceans of young It is a favoured place. Famine or blight, Pestilence, war, and earthquake, never light Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they Sail onward far upon their fatal way.
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