English Poems | Page 2

dreaming eye
yet dauntless foot,
Who all Francesca's wealth of loving had;
One
brave to scale a wall and steal the fruit,
Nor fear because some dotard
owned the root;
Yea! one who wore his love like sword on thigh

And kept not all his valour for his lute;
One who could dare as well as
sing and sigh.
Ah! then were hearts to love, but they are long gone
by.
Ye lily-wives so happy in the nest,
Whose joy within the gates of
duty springs,
Blame not Love's poor, who, if they would be blest,

Must steal what comes to you with marriage rings:
Ye pity the poor
lark whose scarce-tried wings
Faint in the net, while still the morning
air
With brown free throats of all his brethren sings,
And can it be

ye will not pity her,
Whose youth is as a lark all lost to singing there?
In opportunity of dear-bought joy
Rich were this twain, for old
Lanciotto, he
Who was her lord, was brother of her boy,
And in one
home together dwelt the three,
With brothers two beside; and he and
she
Sat at one board together, in one fane
Their voices rose upon
one hymn, ah me!
Beneath one roof each night their limbs had lain,

As now in death they share the one eternal pain.
As much as common men can love a flower
Unto Lanciotto was
Francesca dear,
'Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power;

And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear,
Though he so green with
youth and he so sere.
Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing

Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,--
Two eggs still silent
in the nest through spring,
May draws so near to June, and not yet
time to sing!
Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign
Had but Francesca
turned about and read
Paolo's bright eyes that only dared to shine

On the dear gold that glorified her head;
Ere all the light had from
their circles fled
And the grey Honour darkened all his face:
They
had not come to June and nothing said,
Day followed day with such
an even pace,
Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace.
Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed
In some sweet volume when
he put it by.
Told how his mistress drew it to her breast
And called
upon his name when none was nigh;
Had but the scarf he kissed with
piteous cry
But breathed again its secret unto her,
Or had but one of
every little sigh
Each left for each been love's true messenger:
They
surely had not kept that winter all the year.
Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed,
Some laggard of the
season still abed
Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead,

And Hope that waited long must deem it dead;
Yet lo! to-morrow

sees its shining head
Singing at dawn 'mid all the garden throng:
Ah,
had it known, it had been earlier sped--
Was it for fear of day it slept
so long,
Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song?
But what poor flower can symbol all the might
And all the magnitude,
great Love, of thee?
Ah, is there aught can image thee aright
In
earth or heaven, how great or fair it be?
We watch the acorn grow
into the tree,
We watch the patient spark surprise the mine,
But
what are oaks to thy Ygdrasil-tree?
What the mad mine's convulsive
strength to thine,
That wrecks a world but bids heaven's soaring
steeples shine?
A god that hath no earthly metaphor,
A blinding word that hath no
earthly rhyme,
Love! we can only call and no name more;
As the
great lonely thunder rolls sublime,
As the great sun doth solitary
climb,
And we have but themselves to know them by,
Just so Love
stands a stranger amid Time:
The god is there, the great voice speaks
on high,
We pray, 'What art thou, Lord?' but win us no reply.
So in the dark grew Love, but feared to flower,
Dreamed to himself,
but never spake a word,
Burned like a prisoned fire from hour to hour,

Sang his dear song like an unheeded bird;
Waiting the summoning
voice so long unheard,
Waiting with weary eyes the gracious sign

To bring his rose, and tell the dream he dared,
The tremulous moment
when the star should shine,
And each should ask of each, and each
should answer
--'Thine.'
Winter to-day, but lo! to-morrow spring!
They waited long, but oh at
last it came,
Came in a silver hush at evening;
Francesca toyed with
threads upon a frame,
Hard by young Paolo read of knight and dame

That long ago had loved and passed away:
He had no other way to
tell his flame,
She dare not listen any other way--
But even that was

bliss to lovers poor as they.
The world grew sweet with wonder in the west
The while he read and
while she listened there,
And many a dream from out its silken nest

Stole like a curling incense through the air;
Yet looked she not on
him, nor did he dare:
But when the lovers kissed in Paradise
His
voice sank and he turned his gaze on her,
Like a