The Unknown Eros | Page 3

and an unguess'd weal;
Until the vanward
billows feel
The agitating shallows, and divine the goal,
And to
foam roll,
And spread and stray
And traverse wildly, like delighted
hands,
The fair and feckless sands;
And so the whole

Unfathomable and immense
Triumphing tide comes at the last to
reach
And burst in wind-kiss'd splendours on the deaf'ning beach,
Where forms of children in first innocence
Laugh and fling pebbles
on the rainbow'd crest
Of its untired unrest.
III. WINTER.
I, singularly moved
To love the lovely that are not beloved,
Of all
the Seasons, most
Love Winter, and to trace
The sense of the
Trophonian pallor on her face.
It is not death, but plenitude of peace;

And the dim cloud that does the world enfold
Hath less the
characters of dark and cold
Than warmth and light asleep,
And
correspondent breathing seems to keep
With the infant harvest,
breathing soft below
Its eider coverlet of snow.
Nor is in field or
garden anything
But, duly look'd into, contains serene
The
substance of things hoped for, in the Spring,
And evidence of

Summer not yet seen.
On every chance-mild day
That visits the
moist shaw,
The honeysuckle, 'sdaining to be crost
In urgence of
sweet life by sleet or frost,
'Voids the time's law
With still increase

Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray;
Often, in sheltering
brakes,
As one from rest disturb'd in the first hour,
Primrose or
violet bewilder'd wakes,
And deems 'tis time to flower;
Though not
a whisper of her voice he hear,
The buried bulb does know
The
signals of the year,
And hails far Summer with his lifted spear.
The
gorse-field dark, by sudden, gold caprice,
Turns, here and there, into
a Jason's fleece;
Lilies, that soon in Autumn slipp'd their gowns of
green,
And vanish'd into earth,
And came again, ere Autumn died,
to birth,
Stand full-array'd, amidst the wavering shower,
And
perfect for the Summer, less the flower;
In nook of pale or crevice of
crude bark,
Thou canst not miss,
If close thou spy, to mark
The
ghostly chrysalis,
That, if thou touch it, stirs in its dream dark;
And
the flush'd Robin, in the evenings hoar,
Does of Love's Day, as if he
saw it, sing;
But sweeter yet than dream or song of Summer or Spring

Are Winter's sometime smiles, that seem to well
From infancy
ineffable;
Her wandering, languorous gaze,
So unfamiliar, so
without amaze,
On the elemental, chill adversity,
The
uncomprehended rudeness; and her sigh
And solemn, gathering tear,

And look of exile from some great repose, the sphere
Of ether,
moved by ether only, or
By something still more tranquil.
IV. BEATA.

Of infinite Heaven the rays,
Piercing some eyelet in our cavern black,

Ended their viewless track
On thee to smite
Solely, as on a
diamond stalactite,
And in mid-darkness lit a rainbow's blaze,

Wherein the absolute Reason, Power, and Love,
That erst could move

Mainly in me but toil and weariness,
Renounced their deadening
might,
Renounced their undistinguishable stress
Of withering white,

And did with gladdest hues my spirit caress,
Nothing of Heaven in

thee showing infinite,
Save the delight.
V. THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW.
Perchance she droops within the hollow gulf
Which the great wave of
coming pleasure draws,
Not guessing the glad cause!
Ye Clouds
that on your endless journey go,
Ye Winds that westward flow,

Thou heaving Sea
That heav'st 'twixt her and me,
Tell her I come;

Then only sigh your pleasure, and be dumb;
For the sweet secret of
our either self
We know.
Tell her I come,
And let her heart be
still'd.
One day's controlled hope, and then one more,
And on the
third our lives shall be fulfill'd!
Yet all has been before:
Palm
placed in palm, twin smiles, and words astray.
What other should we
say?
But shall I not, with ne'er a sign, perceive,
Whilst her sweet
hands I hold,
The myriad threads and meshes manifold
Which Love
shall round her weave:
The pulse in that vein making alien pause

And varying beats from this;
Down each long finger felt, a differing
strand
Of silvery welcome bland;
And in her breezy palm
And
silken wrist,
Beneath the touch of my like numerous bliss

Complexly kiss'd,
A diverse and distinguishable calm?
What should
we say!
It all has been before;
And yet our lives shall now be first
fulfill'd,
And into their summ'd sweetness fall distill'd
One sweet
drop more;
One sweet drop more, in absolute increase
Of
unrelapsing peace.
O, heaving Sea,
That heav'st as if for bliss of her and me,
And
separatest not dear heart from heart,
Though each 'gainst other beats
too far apart,
For yet awhile
Let it not seem that I behold her smile.

O, weary Love, O, folded to her breast,
Love in each moment years
and years of rest,
Be calm, as being not.
Ye oceans of intolerable
delight,
The blazing photosphere of central Night,
Be ye forgot.

Terror, thou swarthy Groom of Bride-bliss coy,
Let me not see thee
toy.
O, Death, too tardy with thy hope intense
Of kisses close
beyond conceit of sense;
O, Life, too liberal, while to take her hand


Is more of hope than heart can understand;
Perturb my golden
patience not with joy,
Nor, through a wish, profane
The peace that
should pertain
To him who does by her attraction move.
Has all not
been before?
One day's controlled hope, and one again,
And then
the third, and ye shall have the rein,
O Life, Death, Terror, Love!

But soon let your unrestful rapture cease,
Ye flaming Ethers thin,

Condensing till the abiding sweetness win
One sweet drop