The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Volume 2. Browning Elizabeth Barrett

      Can my affections find out nothing best,

      But still and still remove?

      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 shines the sun aslant;

      The sun may shine and we be cold!

      O hearken, loving hearts and bold,

      Unto my wild romaunt.

      Margret, Margret.

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 passing faith,

      Or as upon the course of life

      The steadfast doom of death.

      Margret, Margret.

      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.

      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.

      "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.

      "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."

      Her cheek had waxèd white

      Like cloud at fall of snow;

      Then like to one at set of sun,

      It waxèd red alsò;

      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.

      "Now, sooth, I fear thee not —

      Shall never fear thee now!"

      (And a noble 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.

      "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.

      "I fed his grey goshawk,

      I kissed his fierce bloodhoùnd,

      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.

      IT trembled on the grass

      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