See no sweet shadows gliding o'er the grass,
Which seems to fill with wild flowers as they pass;
These, from the twilight music of the fount
Ask not its secret and its sweet account;
These never seek to read the chronicle
Which hides within the hyacinth's dim-lit bell:
They know not of the poetry which lies
Upon the summer rose's languid eyes;
They have no spiritual visitings elysian,
They dream no dreamings, and they see no vision.
The young Italian was not of the clay,
That doth to dust one long allegiance pay.
No; he was tempered with that finer flame,
Which ancient fables say from heaven came;
The sunshine of the soul, which fills the earth
With beauty borrowed from its place of birth.
Hence has the lute its song, the scroll its line;
Hence stands the statue glorious as its shrine;
Hence the fair picture, kings are fain to win,
The mind's creations from the world within.]
———————
Not without me!—alone, thy hand
Forgot its art awhile;
Thy pencil lost its high command,
Uncherished by my smile.
It was too dull a task for thee
To paint remembered rays;
Thou, who were wont to gaze on me,
And colour from that gaze.
I know that I am very fair,
I would I were divine,
To realize the shapes that share
Those midnight hours of thine.
Thou sometimes tell'st me, how in sleep
What lovely phantoms seem;
I hear thee name them, and I weep,
Too jealous of a dream.
But thou didst pine for me, my love,
Aside thy colours thrown;
'Twas sad to raise thine eyes above,
Unanswered by mine own:
Thou who art wont to lift those eyes,
And gather from my face
The warmth of life's impassioned dyes,
Its colour and its grace.
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