The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume II Part 1

The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Volume II

POEMS

_THE ROMAUNT OF MARGRET._

Can my affections find out nothing best, But still and still remove?

QUARLES.

I.

I plant a tree whose leaf The yew-tree leaf will suit: But when its shade is o'er you laid, Turn round and pluck the fruit.

Now reach my harp from off the wall Where s.h.i.+nes the sun aslant; The sun may s.h.i.+ne and we be cold!

O hearken, loving hearts and bold, Unto my wild romaunt.

Margret, Margret.

II.

Sitteth the fair ladye Close to the river side Which runneth on with a merry tone Her merry thoughts to guide: It runneth through the trees, It runneth by the hill, Nathless the lady's thoughts have found A way more pleasant still Margret, Margret.

III.

The night is in her hair And giveth shade to shade, And the pale moonlight on her forehead white Like a spirit's hand is laid; Her lips part with a smile Instead of speakings done: I ween, she thinketh of a voice, Albeit uttering none.

Margret, Margret.

IV.

All little birds do sit With heads beneath their wings: Nature doth seem in a mystic dream, Absorbed from her living things: That dream by that ladye Is certes unpartook, For she looketh to the high cold stars With a tender human look Margret, Margret.

V.

The lady's shadow lies Upon the running river; It lieth no less in its quietness, For that which resteth never: Most like a trusting heart Upon a pa.s.sing faith, Or as upon the course of life The steadfast doom of death.

Margret, Margret.

VI.

The lady doth not move, The lady doth not dream, Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid In rest upon the stream: It shaketh without wind, It parteth from the tide, It standeth upright in the cleft moonlight, It sitteth at her side.

Margret, Margret.

VII.

Look in its face, ladye, And keep thee from thy swound; With a spirit bold thy pulses hold And hear its voice's sound: For so will sound thy voice When thy face is to the wall, And such will be thy face, ladye, When the maidens work thy pall.

Margret, Margret.

VIII.

"Am I not like to thee?"

The voice was calm and low, And between each word you might have heard The silent forests grow; "_The like may sway the like;_"

By which mysterious law Mine eyes from thine and my lips from thine The light and breath may draw.

Margret, Margret.

IX.

"My lips do need thy breath, My lips do need thy smile, And my pallid eyne, that light in thine Which met the stars erewhile: Yet go with light and life If that thou lovest one In all the earth who loveth thee As truly as the sun, Margret, Margret."

X.

Her cheek had waxed white Like cloud at fall of snow; Then like to one at set of sun, It waxed red als; For love's name maketh bold As if the loved were near: And then she sighed the deep long sigh Which cometh after fear.

Margret, Margret.

XI.

"Now, sooth, I fear thee not-- Shall never fear thee now!"

(And a n.o.ble sight was the sudden light Which lit her lifted brow.) "Can earth be dry of streams, Or hearts of love?" she said; "Who doubteth love, can know not love: He is already dead."

Margret, Margret.

XII.

"I have" ... and here her lips Some word in pause did keep, And gave the while a quiet smile As if they paused in sleep,-- "I have ... a brother dear, A knight of knightly fame!

I broidered him a knightly scarf With letters of my name Margret, Margret.

XIII.

"I fed his grey goshawk, I kissed his fierce bloodhound, I sate at home when he might come And caught his horn's far sound: I sang him hunter's songs, I poured him the red wine, He looked across the cup and said, _I love thee, sister mine._"

Margret, Margret.

XIV.

IT trembled on the gra.s.s With a low, shadowy laughter; The sounding river which rolled, for ever Stood dumb and stagnant after: "Brave knight thy brother is!

But better loveth he Thy chaliced wine than thy chaunted song, And better both than thee, Margret, Margret."

XV.

The lady did not heed The river's silence while Her own thoughts still ran at their will, And calm was still her smile.

"My little sister wears The look our mother wore: I smooth her locks with a golden comb, I bless her evermore."

Margret, Margret.

XVI.