Thou fleest far into the dark green woods, Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes Ha! what a burst was that! The Eolian strain Goes floating through the tangled pas sages Of the still woods; and now it comes again, A multitudinous melody, like a rain Of glassy music under echoing trees, Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul With a bright harmony of happiness, Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll Thin waves of crimson flame, till we become, With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb, And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. I cannot love the man who doth not love, As men love light, the song of happy birds; For the first visions that my boy-heart wove, To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun, Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words From the poet's lips float gently, one by one, And vanish in the human heart; and then I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed, when, With noon-heat overwrought, the musicgush was done. I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades, Alone with Nature! - but it may not be: soar Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine, Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, thy heart is still and cold, And mine, benumbed with wretchedness, is prematurely old: Of our whole world of love and joy thou wast the only light, A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark a night! Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore ! The vines and flowers we planted, Love, I tend with anxious care, And yet they droop and fade away, as though they wanted air: |