i.

It seems a year, and more, since last we met, Since roseate spring repaid, in part, its debt To thy bright eyes, and o'er the lowlands fair Made daffodils so like thy golden hair That I, poor wretch, have kiss'd them on my knees!

Forget-Me-Nots peep out beneath the trees So like thine eyes that I have question'd them, And thought thee near, though viewless on the breeze.

ii.

It seems a year; and yet, when all is told, 'Tis but a week since I was re-enroll'd Among thy friends. How fairy-like the scene!

How gay with lamps! How fraught with tender sheen Of life and languor! I was thine alone:-- Alert for thee,--intent to catch the tone Of thy sweet voice,--and proud to be alive To call to heart a peace for ever flown.

iii.

Had I not vext thee, as a monk in prayer May vex a saint by musing, unaware, On evil things? A saint is hard to move, And quick to chide, and slow,--as I can prove,-- To do what's just; and yet, in thy despite, We met again, we too, at dead of night; And I was hopeful in my love of thee, And thou superb, and matchless, in the light.

iv.

I felt distraught from gazing over-much At thy great beauty; and I fear'd to touch The dainty hand which Envy's self hath praised.

I fear'd to greet thee; and my soul was dazed And self-convicted in its new design; For I was mad to hope to call thee mine, Aye! mad as he who claims a Virgin's love Because his lips have praised her at a shrine.

v.

I saw thee there in all the proud array Of thy young charms,--as if a summer's day Had leapt to life and made itself a queen,-- As if the sylphs, remembering what had been, Had mission'd thee, from out the world's romance, To stir my pulse, and thrill me with a glance: And once again, allow'd, though undesired, I did become thy partner in the dance.

vi.

I bow'd to thee. I drew thee to my side, As one may seize a wrestler in his pride To try conclusions,--and I felt the rush Of my heart's blood suffuse me in a blush That told its tale. But what my tongue would tell Was spent in sighs, as o'er my spirit fell The silvery cadence of thy lips' a.s.sent; And every look o'er-ruled me like a spell.

vii.

O devil's joy of dancing, when a tune Speeds us to Heaven, and night is at the noon Of all its frolic, all its wild desire!

O thrall of rapt illusions when we tire Of coy reserve, and all the moments pa.s.s As pa.s.s the visions in a magic gla.s.s, And every step is shod with ecstacy, And every smile is fleck'd with some Alas!

viii.

Was it a moment or a merry span Of years uncounted when convulsion ran Right through the veins of me, to make me blest, And yet accurst, in that revolving quest Known as a waltz,--if waltz indeed it were And not a fluttering dream of gauze and vair And languorous eyes? I scarce can muse thereon Without a pang too sweet for me to bear!

ix.

By right of music, for a fleeting term, Mine arms enwound thee and I held thee firm There on my breast,--so near, yet so remote, So close about me that I seem'd to float In sunlit rapture,--touch'd I know not how By some suggestion of a deeper vow Than men are 'ware of when, on Glory's track, They kneel to angels with uplifted brow.

x.

And lo! abash'd, I do recall to mind All that is past:--the yearning undefined,-- The baulk'd confession that was like a sob-- The sound of singing and the gurgling throb Of lute and viol,--meant for many things But most for misery; and a something clings Close to my heart that is not wantonness, Though, wanton-like, it warms me while it stings.

xi.

The night returns,--that night of all the nights!

And I am dower'd anew with such delights As memory feeds on; for I walk'd with thee In moonlit gardens, and there flew to me A flower-like moth, a pinion'd daffodil, From Nature's hand; and, out beyond the hill, There rose a star I joy'd to look upon Because it seem'd the star of thy good will.

xii.

We sat beneath the trees, as well thou know'st, Within an arbour which a summer's boast Had made ambrosial; and we loiter'd there Some little s.p.a.ce, the while upon the air Uprose the fragrance of uncounted flowers.

Ah me! how weird a tryste was that of ours!

And how the moon look'd down, so lurid-warm, Athwart the stillness of the frondage-towers!

xiii.

I seem'd to feel thy breath upon my cheek; I vainly searched for words I long'd to speak, But could not utter lest the sound thereof Should scare away the elves that wait on love.

And when I spoke to thee 'twas of the spot Where we were seated,--things that matter'd not,-- Uncared for things,--the weather,--the new laws!

And, sudden-loud, the wind a.s.sail'd the grot.

xiv.

A little bird was warbling overhead As if to twit me with the word unsaid Which he, more daring, when the sun was high, Trill'd to his mate! He knew the tender "why"

Of many a pleading, and he knew, meseems, The very key-note to the lyric dreams Of all true poets when, by love impell'd, They search the secrets of the woods and streams.

xv.

'Tis sure that summer, when she rear'd the bower And arched the roof and gave it all the dower Of all its leaves, and all the crannies small Where wrens look through,--'tis sure that, after all, Summer was kind, and meant to make for me A shriving-place,--a lighthouse on the sea Of all that verdure,--that, beneath the stars, I might receive one quickening glance from thee.

xvi.

Oh! had I dared to whisper in thine ear My heart-full wish, undaunted by the fear Of some rebuke:--a flush of thy fair face, A lifted hand to tell me that the place Was fairy-fenced, and guarded as by flame,-- Oh! had I dared to court the word of blame That's good for me, no doubt! at every turn, My life to-day were chasten'd by the same.

xvii.

But I was conscious of a sudden ban Hurl'd from the zenith. I was like the man Who scaled Olympus, with intent to bring New fire therefrom, and dared not face the King Of thought and thunder. I was full prepared For thy displeasure,--for the past was bared To mine on-looking; and, with faltering tongue, I left my languorous meanings undeclared.

xviii.

O lost Occasion! what a thing art thou:-- A three-fold key,--the when, the where, the how,-- The past, the present and the future tense,-- All thrown aside. For what? A witless sense Of some compunction! When the hour is bold Reason is shy, and rapture, seeming-cold, Makes mute surrender of its dearest chance, And all for fear of doubts that might be told.