• Bleating before a barking dog;
• And the old streets come peering through
• Another night that London knew;
• And all as ghostlike as the lamps.

• 310 So on the wings of day decamps
• My last night's frolic. Glooms begin
• To shiver off as lights creep in
• Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to,
• And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue,—
• Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight,
• Like a wise virgin's, all one night!
• And in the alcove coolly spread
• Glimmers with dawn your empty bed;
• And yonder your fair face I see
• 320 Reflected lying on my knee,
• Where teems with first foreshadowings
• Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings:
• And on your bosom all night worn
• Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn
• But dies not yet this summer morn.

• And now without, as if some word
• Had called upon them that they heard,
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• The London sparrows far and nigh
• Clamour together suddenly;
• 330 And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake
• Here in their song his part must take,
• Because here too the day doth break.

• And somehow in myself the dawn
• Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn
• Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep.
• But will it wake her if I heap
• These cushions thus beneath her head
• Where my knee was? No,—there's your bed,
• My Jenny, while you dream. And there
• 340 I lay among your golden hair
• Perhaps the subject of your dreams,
• These golden coins.

• For still one deems
• That Jenny's flattering sleep confers
• New magic on the magic purse,—
• Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies!
• Between the threads fine fumes arise
• And shape their pictures in the brain.
• There roll no streets in glare and rain,
• Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk;
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• 350 But delicately sighs in musk
• The homage of the dim boudoir;
• Or like a palpitating star
• Thrilled into song, the opera-night
• Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light;
• Or at the carriage-window shine
• Rich wares for choice; or, free to dine,
• Whirls through its hour of health (divine
• For her) the concourse of the Park.
• And though in the discounted dark
• 360 Her functions there and here are one,
• Beneath the lamps and in the sun
• There reigns at least the acknowledged belle
• Apparelled beyond parallel.
• Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams.

• For even the Paphian Venus seems
• A goddess o'er the realms of love,
• When silver-shrined in shadowy grove:
• Aye, or let offerings nicely plac'd
• But hide Priapus to the waist,
• 370 And whoso looks on him shall see
• An eligible deity.

• Why, Jenny, waking here alone
• May help you to remember one,
• Though all the memory's long outworn
• Of many a double-pillowed morn.
• I think I see you when you wake,
• And rub your eyes for me, and shake
• My gold, in rising, from your hair,
• A Danaë for a moment there.

• 380 Jenny, my love rang true! for still
• Love at first sight is vague, until
• That tinkling makes him audible.

• And must I mock you to the last,
• Ashamed of my own shame,—aghast
• Because some thoughts not born amiss
• Rose at a poor fair face like this?
• Well, of such thoughts so much I know:
• In my life, as in hers, they show,
• By a far gleam which I may near,
• 390 A dark path I can strive to clear.

• Only one kiss. Goodbye, my dear.

   

• This is her picture as she was:
• It seems a thing to wonder on,
• As though mine image in the glass
• Should tarry when myself am gone
• I gaze until she seems to stir,—
• Until mine eyes almost aver
• That now, even now, the sweet lips part
• To breathe the words of the sweet heart:—
• And yet the earth is over her.

• 10 Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray
• That makes the prison-depths more rude,—
• The drip of water night and day
• Giving a tongue to solitude.
• Yet only this, of love's whole prize,
• Remains; save what in mournful guise
• Takes counsel with my soul alone,—
• Save what is secret and unknown,
• Below the earth, above the skies.

• In painting her I shrined her face
• 20 Mid mystic trees, where light falls in
• Hardly at all; a covert place
• Where you might think to find a din
• Of doubtful talk, and a live flame
• Wandering, and many a shape whose name
• Not itself knoweth, and old dew,
• And your own footsteps meeting you,
• And all things going as they came.

• A deep dim wood; and there she stands
• As in that wood that day: for so
• 30 Was the still movement of her hands
• And such the pure line's gracious flow.
• And passing fair the type must seem,
• Unknown the presence and the dream.
• 'Tis she: though of herself, alas!
• Less than her shadow on the grass
• Or than her image in the stream.

• That day we met there, I and she
• One with the other all alone;
• And we were blithe; yet memory
• 40 Saddens those hours, as when the moon
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• Looks upon daylight. And with her
• I stooped to drink the spring-water,
• Athirst where other waters sprang;
• And where the echo is, she sang,—
• My soul another echo there.

• But when that hour my soul won strength
• For words whose silence wastes and kills,
• Dull raindrops smote us, and at length
• Thundered the heat within the hills.
• 50 That eve I spoke those words again
• Beside the pelted window-pane;
• And there she hearkened what I said,
• With under-glances that surveyed
• The empty pastures blind with rain.

• Next day the memories of these things,
• Like leaves through which a bird has flown,
• Still vibrated with Love's warm wings;
• Till I must make them all my own
• And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease
• 60 Of talk and sweet long silences,
• She stood among the plants in bloom
• At windows of a summer room,
• To feign the shadow of the trees.

• And as I wrought, while all above
• And all around was fragrant air,
• In the sick burthen of my love
• It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there
• Beat like a heart among the leaves.
• O heart that never beats nor heaves,
• 70 In that one darkness lying still,
• What now to thee my love's great will
• Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?

• For now doth daylight disavow
• Those days,—nought left to see or hear.
• Only in solemn whispers now
• At night-time these things reach mine ear;
• When the leaf-shadows at a breath
• Shrink in the road, and all the heath,
• Forest and water, far and wide,
• 80 In limpid starlight glorified,
• Lie like the mystery of death.

• Last night at last I could have slept,
• And yet delayed my sleep till dawn,
• Still wandering. Then it was I wept:
• For unawares I came upon
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• Those glades where once she walked with me:
• And as I stood there suddenly,
• All wan with traversing the night,
• Upon the desolate verge of light
• 90 Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea.

• Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears
• The beating heart of Love's own breast,—
• Where round the secret of all spheres
• All angels lay their wings to rest,—
• How shall my soul stand rapt and awed,
• When, by the new birth borne abroad
• Throughout the music of the suns,
• It enters in her soul at once
• And knows the silence there for God!

• 100 Here with her face doth memory sit
• Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline,
• Till other eyes shall look from it,
• Eyes of the spirit's Palestine,
• Even than the old gaze tenderer:
• While hopes and aims long lost with her
• Stand round her image side by side,
• Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
• About the Holy Sepulchre.

   

• She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
• At length the long-ungranted shade
• Of weary eyelids overweigh'd
• The pain nought else might yet relieve.

• Our mother, who had leaned all day
• Over the bed from chime to chime,
• Then raised herself for the first time,
• And as she sat her down, did pray.

• Her little work-table was spread
• 10 With work to finish. For the glare
• Made by her candle, she had care
• To work some distance from the bed.

• Without, there was a cold moon up,
• Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
• The hollow halo it was in
• Was like an icy crystal cup.

• Through the small room, with subtle sound
• Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
• And reddened. In its dim alcove
• 20 The mirror shed a clearness round.

• I had been sitting up some nights,
• And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
• Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
• The stillness and the broken lights.

• Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
• Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
• The ruffled silence spread again,
• Like water that a pebble stirs.

• Our mother rose from where she sat:
• 30 Her needles, as she laid them down,
• Met lightly, and her silken gown
• Settled: no other noise than that.

• ‘Glory unto the Newly Born!’
• So, as said angels, she did say;
• Because we were in Christmas Day,
• Though it would still be long till morn.

• Just then in the room over us
• There was a pushing back of chairs,
• As some who had sat unawares
• 40 So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

• With anxious softly-stepping haste
• Our mother went where Margaret lay,
• Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they
• Have broken her long watched-for rest!

• She stopped an instant, calm, and turned;
• But suddenly turned back again;
• And all her features seemed in pain
• With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

• For my part, I but hid my face,
• 50 And held my breath, and spoke no word:
• There was none spoken; but I heard
• The silence for a little space.

• Our mother bowed herself and wept:
• And both my arms fell, and I said,
• ‘God knows I knew that she was dead.’
• And there, all white, my sister slept.

• Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
• A little after twelve o'clock
• We said, ere the first quarter struck,
• 60 ‘Christ's blessing on the newly born!’

   

• Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
• The river-reaches wind,
• The whispering trees accept the breeze,
• The ripple's cool and kind:
• With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores,
• With rippling laughters gay,
• With white arms bared to ply the oars,
• On last year's first of May.

• Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
• 10 The river's brimmed with rain,
• Through close-met banks and parted banks
• Now near now far again:
• With parting tears caressed to smiles,
• With meeting promised soon,
• With every sweet vow that beguiles,
• On last year's first of June.

• Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
• The river's flecked with foam,
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• 'Neath shuddering clouds that hang in shrouds
• 20 And lost winds wild for home:
• With infant wailings at the breast,
• With homeless steps astray,
• With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest
• On this year's first of May.

• Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
• The summer river flows
• With doubled flight of moons by night
• And lilies' deep repose:
• With lo! beneath the moon's white stare
• 30 A white face not the moon,
• With lilies meshed in tangled hair,
• On this year's first of June.

• Between Holmscote and Hurstcote
• A troth was given and riven,
• From heart's trust grew one life to two,
• Two lost lives cry to Heaven:
• With banks spread calm to meet the sky,
• With meadows newly mowed,
• The harvest-paths of glad July,
• 40 The sweet school-children's road.

   

---

• Our Lombard country-girls along the coast
• Wear daggers in their garters; for they know
• That they might hate another girl to death
• Or meet a German lover. Such a knife
• I bought her, with a hilt of horn and pearl.

• Father, you cannot know of all my thoughts
• That day in going to meet her,—that last day
• For the last time, she said;—of all the love
• And all the hopeless hope that she might change
• 10 And go back with me. Ah! and everywhere,
• At places we both knew along the road,
• Some fresh shape of herself as once she was
• Grew present at my side; until it seemed—