Poems. Edward Dowden

      I seek thee, and thou art not; for the sky

      Has drawn thee in upon her breast to be

      A hidden talisman, while light soars high,

      Virtuous to make wide heaven’s tranquillity

      More tranquil, and her steadfast truth more true,

      Yea even her overbowed infinity.

      Of tenderness, when o’er wet woods the blue

      Shows past white edges of a sundering cloud,

      More infinitely tender. Day is new,

      Night ended; how the hills are overflowed

      With spaciousness of splendour, and each tree

      Is touched; only not yet the lark is loud,

      Since viewless still o’er city and plain and sea

      Vibrates thy spirit-wingèd ecstasy.

      Because you sleep, my child, with breathing light

      As heave of the June sea,

      Because your lips soft petals dewy-bright

      Dispart so tenderly;

      Because the slumbrous warmth is on your cheek

      Up from the hushed heart sent,

      And in this midmost noon when winds are weak

      No cloud lies more content;

      Because nor song of bird, nor lamb’s keen call

      May reach you sunken deep,

      Because your lifted arm I thus let fall

      Heavy with perfect sleep;

      Because all will is drawn from you, all power,

      And Nature through dark roots

      Will hold and nourish you for one sweet hour

      Amid her flowers and fruits;

      Therefore though tempests gather, and the gale

      Through autumn skies will roar,

      Though Earth send up to heaven the ancient wail

      Heard by dead Gods of yore;

      Though spectral faiths contend, and for her course

      The soul confused must try,

      While through the whirl of atoms and of force

      Looms an abandoned sky;

      Yet, know I, Peace abides, of earth’s wild things

      Centre, and ruling thence;

      Behold, a spirit folds her budded wings

      In confident innocence.

      Past the town’s clamour is a garden full

      Of loneness and old greenery; at noon

      When birds are hushed, save one dim cushat’s croon,

      A ripen’d silence hangs beneath the cool

      Great branches; basking roses dream and drop

      A petal, and dream still; and summer’s boon

      Of mellow grasses, to be levelled soon

      By a dew-drenchèd scythe, will hardly stop

      At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees.

      Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day,

      And know all night in dusky placidness

      It lies beneath the summer, while great ease

      Broods in the leaves, and every light wind’s stress

      Lifts a faint odour down the verdurous way.

      Here I am slave of visions. When noon heat

      Strikes the red walls, and their environ’d air

      Lies steep’d in sun; when not a creature dare

      Affront the fervour, from my dim retreat

      Where woof of leaves embowers a beechen seat,

      With chin on palm, and wide-set eyes I stare,

      Beyond the liquid quiver and the glare,

      Upon fair shapes that move on silent feet.

      Those Three strait-robed, and speechless as they pass,

      Come often, touch the lute, nor heed me more

      Than birds or shadows heed; that naked child

      Is dove-like Psyche slumbering in deep grass;

      Sleep, sleep,—he heeds thee not, you Sylvan wild

      Munching the russet apple to its core.

      The grass around my limbs is deep and sweet;

      Yonder the house has lost its shadow wholly,

      The blinds are dropped, and softly now and slowly

      The day flows in and floats; a calm retreat

      Of tempered light where fair things fair things meet;

      White busts and marble Dian make it holy,

      Within a niche hangs Dürer’s Melancholy

      Brooding; and, should you enter, there will greet

      Your sense with vague allurement effluence faint

      Of one magnolia bloom; fair fingers draw

      From the piano Chopin’s heart-complaint;

      Alone, white-robed she sits; a fierce macaw

      On the verandah, proud of plume and paint,

      Screams, insolent despot, showing beak and claw.

      “That was the thrush’s last good-night,” I thought,

      And heard the soft descent of summer rain

      In the drooped garden leaves; but hush! again

      The perfect iterance,—freer than unsought

      Odours of violets dim in woodland ways,

      Deeper than coilèd waters laid a-dream

      Below mossed ledges of a shadowy stream,

      And faultless as blown roses in June days.

      Full-throated singer! art thou thus anew

      Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone

      The enrichèd silence drops for thy delight

      More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?

      Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone,

      Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.

      Queen-moon