Sonnets from the Portuguese | Page 4

change us, nor the tempests bend;?Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:?And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,?We should but vow the faster for the stars.
III
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!?Unlike our uses and our destinies.?Our ministering two angels look surprise?On one another, as they strike athwart?Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art?A guest for queens to social pageantries,?With gages from a hundred brighter eyes?Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part?Of chief musician. What hast thou to do?With looking from the lattice-lights at me,?A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through?The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree??The chrism is on thine head,--on mine, the dew, -?And Death must dig the level where these agree.
IV
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,?Most gracious singer of high poems! where?The dancers will break footing, from the care?Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.?And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor?For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear?To let thy music drop here unaware?In folds of golden fulness at my door??Look up and see the casement broken in,?The bats and owlets builders in the roof!?My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.?Hush, call no echo up in further proof?Of desolation! there's a voice within?That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.
V
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,?As once Electra her sepulchral urn,?And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn?The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see?What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,?And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn?Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn?Could tread them out to darkness utterly,?It might be well perhaps. But if instead?Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow?The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,?O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,?That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred?The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!
VI
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand?Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore?Alone upon the threshold of my door?Of individual life, I shall command?The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand?Serenely in the sunshine as before,?Without the sense of that which I forbore -?Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land?Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine?With pulses that beat double. What I do?And what I dream include thee, as the wine?Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue?God for myself, He hears that name of thine,?And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
VII
The face of all the world is changed, I think,?Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul?Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole?Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink?Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,?Was caught up into love, and taught the whole?Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole?God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,?And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.?The names of country, heaven, are changed away?For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;?And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday,?(The singing angels know) are only dear?Because thy name moves right in what they say.
VIII
What can I give thee back, O liberal?And princely giver, who hast brought the gold?And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,?And laid them on the outside of the wall?For such as I to take or leave withal,?In unexpected largesse? am I cold,?Ungrateful, that for these most manifold?High gifts, I render nothing back at all??Not so; not cold,--but very poor instead.?Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run?The colours from my life, and left so dead?And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done?To give the same as pillow to thy head.?Go farther! let it serve to trample on.
IX
Can it be right to give what I can give??To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears?As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years?Re-sighing on my lips renunciative?Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live?For all thy adjurations? O my fears,?That this can scarce be right! We are not peers?So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,?That givers of such gifts as mine are, must?Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!?I will not soil thy purple with my dust,?Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,?Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.?Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.
X
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed?And worth of acceptation. Fire is bright,?Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light?Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:?And love is fire. And when I say at need?I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee--in thy sight?I stand transfigured, glorified aright,?With conscience of the new rays that proceed?Out of my