Ah, well-but sing the foolish song It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And I should know if it beat right, And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise With her laughter or her sighs, A trifle, sweet! which true love spells— So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Love that hath us in the net, Many a chance the years beget. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. What is love? for we forget: Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part Became an outward breathing type, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee: O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro' Before he mounts the hill, I know The wind sounds like a silver wire, My whole soul waiting silently, Droops blinded with his shining eye : I will grow round him in his place, H Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Stands up and takes the morning: but in front Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck |