The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 122

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet G.o.d has not said a word!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

MODERN BEAUTY

I am the torch, she saith, and what to me If the moth die of me? I am the flame Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame.

But live with that clear light of perfect fire Which is to men the death of their desire.

I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead.

The world has been my mirror, time has been My breath upon the gla.s.s; and men have said, Age after age, in rapture and despair, Love's poor few words, before my image there.

I live, and am immortal; in my eyes The sorrow of the world, and on my lips The joy of life, mingle to make me wise; Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse: Who is there lives for beauty? Still am I The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?

Arthur Symons [1865-

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a fairy's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed--Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried--"La belle dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

John Keats [1795-1821]

TANTALUS--TEXAS

"If I may trust your love," she cried, "And you would have me for a bride, Ride over yonder plain, and bring Your flask full from the Mustang spring; Fly, fast as western eagle's wing, O'er the Llano Estacado!"

He heard, and bowed without a word, His gallant steed he lightly spurred!

He turned his face, and rode away Toward the grave of dying day, And vanished with its parting ray On the Llano Estacado.

Night came, and found him riding on, Day came, and still he rode alone.

He spared not spur, he drew not rein, Across that broad, unchanging plain, Till he the Mustang spring might gain, On the Llano Estacado.

A little rest, a little draught, Hot from his hand, and quickly quaffed, His flask was filled, and then he turned.

Once more his steed the maguey spurned, Once more the sky above him burned, On the Llano Estacado.

How hot the quivering landscape glowed!

His brain seemed boiling as he rode-- Was it a dream, a drunken one, Or was he really riding on?

Was that a skull that gleamed and shone On the Llano Estacado?

"Brave steed of mine, brave steed!" he cried, "So often true, so often tried, Bear up a little longer yet!"

His mouth was black with blood and sweat-- Heaven! how he longed his lips to wet On the Llano Estacado.

And still, within his breast, he held The precious flask so lately filled.

Oh, for a drink! But well he knew If empty it should meet her view, Her scorn--but still his longing grew On the Llano Estacado.

His horse went down. He wandered on, Giddy, blind, beaten, and alone.

While upon cus.h.i.+oned couch you lie, Oh, think how hard it is to die, Beneath the cruel, cloudless sky On the Llano Estacado.

At last he staggered, stumbled, fell, His day was done, he knew full well, And raising to his lips the flask, The end, the object of his task, Drank to her--more she could not ask.

Ah, the Llano Estacado!

That night in the Presidio, Beneath the torchlight's wavy glow, She danced--and never thought of him, The victim of a woman's whim, Lying, with face upturned and grim, On the Llano Estacado.

Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]

ENCHAINMENT

I went to her who loveth me no more, And prayed her bear with me, if so she might; For I had found day after day too sore, And tears that would not cease night after night.

And so I prayed her, weeping, that she bore To let me be with her a little; yea, To soothe myself a little with her sight, Who loved me once, ah many a night and day.

Then she who loveth me no more, maybe She pitied somewhat: and I took a chain To bind myself to her, and her to me; Yea, so that I might call her mine again.

Lo! she forbade me not; but I and she Fettered her fair limbs, and her neck more fair, Chained the fair wasted white of love's domain.