TO THE ELECT OF LOVE,--OR SIDE-BY-SIDE
IN RAPTEST ECSTASY, OR SUNDERED WIDE
BY SEAS THAT BEAR NO MESSAGE TO OR FRO
BETWEEN THE LOVED AND LOST OF LONG AGO.
_So were I but a minstrel, deft
At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
Of rondels such as rapture sings,--
I'd loop my lyre across my breast,
Nor stay me till my knee found rest
In midnight banks of bud and flower
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.
And there, drenched with the teary dews,
I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
So light, so tender, and so sweet
Should be the words I would repeat,
Her casement, on my gradual sight,
Would blossom as a lily might._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]