Little one, so soft and light,
Haunting silent, darkened ways,
In the shadow of the night,
Thee I praise.
Such an elf as danced of old,
Light as thistle-down or froth,
By Titania's throne of gold,
Little Moth.
What strange fate linked thee and me,
In this world of hope and fears?
Surely God hath sheltered thee
From our tears.
Hands thou hast, and eyes that seem
Troubled, by some pain obscure,
As though life were but a dream,
Nothing sure.
Is thy tiny spirit vext,
As our own, by vague distress,
Haunted, by our life's perplext
Weariness?
Wondering, at all the strange
Loveliness of lapsing days;
Change that passeth into change,
Rain or rays?
Little hands that cling to me,
Helpless as mine own, and weak,
What in this world's mystery
Do we seek?
CANZONE
TO DOROTHY SHAKESPEAR
Mine eyes have seen the veiled bride of the night,
Before whose footsteps souls of men are blown,
As are dead leaves, about the wind's swift feet.
Wherefore great sorrow cometh through my song:
A wind of grieving, through the branches wet,
When all the alleys of the woods are lit
With yellow leaves, and sere, and full of sighs.
Through the bare woods she came, and pools of light
Were darkened at her coming; and a moan
Broke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleet
Leaves whirled about her passage, with the throng
Of her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret,
And passed as softly as the bats that flit
Down silent ways, beneath the clouded skies.
Wherefore I grieve, that no more in my sight
Are mortal women lovely. I am grown
Amorous of her lips with kisses sweet,
For her deep eyes in their enchantment strong.
Yea! I am wasted with my passion's fret:
Restless, that my poor worship may not quit
The pure light of her face, which made me wise.
Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight,
Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone,
Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet,
Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there among
Her spools of weaving threads, her dreams beget
Life, from her nimble fingers and quick wit,
Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies.
These are made whole and perfect in the bright
Broideries of her hands, while by her throne
Move unborn hours, which in her cave discrete
She hideth, though her secret thoughts prolong
Soft moments mortal hearts so soon forget,
Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit,
Moving as light in dance as melodies.
Wherefore, though in the cold I wail my plight,
And wander, through the hoary woods, alone,
Hunted, and smitten of the wind and sleet,
Among these rooted souls, I would not wrong
The intense white flame of beauty mine eyes met,
And married for a moment: in this pit
My blinded soul feeds on her memories.
Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yet
Her face is mine: such joy have I in it
I cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes.