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

      Her mother sat silent – too tender, I wis,

      Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss:

      But the boy started up pale with tears, passion-wrought —

      "O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought!

      If he cometh, who told thee?"

      "I know by the hills," she resumed calm and clear,

      "By the beauty upon them, that HE is anear:

      Did they ever look so since he bade me adieu?

      Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, is true,

      As Saint Agnes in sleeping!"

      Half-ashamed and half-softened the boy did not speak,

      And the blush met the lashes which fell on his cheek:

      She bowed down to kiss him: dear saints, did he see

      Or feel on her bosom the BROWN ROSARY,

      That he shrank away weeping?

      Must we stand so far, and she

      So very fair?

      As bodies be.

      And she so mild?

      As spirits when

      They meeken, not to God, but men.

      And she so young, that I who bring

      Good dreams for saintly children, might

      Mistake that small soft face to-night,

      And fetch her such a blessèd thing

      That at her waking she would weep

      For childhood lost anew in sleep.

      How hath she sinned?

      In bartering love;

      God's love for man's.

      We may reprove

      The world for this, not only her:

      Let me approach to breathe away

      This dust o' the heart with holy air.

      Stand off! She sleeps, and did not pray.

      Did none pray for her?

      Ay, a child, —

      Who never, praying, wept before:

      While, in a mother undefiled,

      Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true

      And pauseless as the pulses do.

      Then I approach.

      It is not WILLED.

      One word: is she redeemed?

      No more!

      The place is filled.

      Forbear that dream – forbear that dream! too near to heaven it leaned.

      Nay, leave me this – but only this! 't is but a dream, sweet fiend!

      It is a thought.

      A sleeping thought – most innocent of good:

      It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot if it would.

      I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy work,

      I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk.

      Forbear that dream – forbear that dream!

      Nay, let me dream at least.

      That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast:

      I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun,

      With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done.

      Forbear that dream – forbear that dream!

      Nay, sweet fiend, let me go:

      I never more can walk with him, oh, never more but so!

      For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirk-yard stone,

      Oh, deep and straight! oh, very straight! they move at nights alone:

      And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly,

      "Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!"

      Forbear that dream, or else disprove its pureness by a sign.

      Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied, my word shall answer thine.

      I heard a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying,

      I see the poppies in the corn I used to sport away in:

      What shall I do – tread down the dew and pull the blossoms blowing?

      Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the rowan?

      Thou shalt do something harder still. Stand up where thou dost stand

      Among the fields of Dreamland with thy father hand in hand,

      And clear and slow repeat the vow, declare its cause and kind,

      Which not to break, in sleep or wake thou bearest on thy mind.

      I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for mournful cause;

      I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong, the spirits laughed applause:

      The spirits trailed along the pines low laughter like a breeze,

      While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars appeared to freeze.

      More calm and free, speak out to me why such a vow was made.

      Because that God decreed my death and I shrank back afraid.

      Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die —

      I wish I were a young dead child and had thy company!

      I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child,

      And wearing only a kiss of thine upon my lips that smiled!

      The linden-tree that covers thee might so have shadowed twain,

      For death itself I did not fear – 't is love that makes the pain:

      Love feareth death.