How shall I hope to be forgiven?
Yet let me not be judged as one
Who mocks at any high behest;
My fault being that I kept the throne
Of a Jove vacant in my breast,
And when Apollo claimed the place
I was too loyal to my Jove;
Unmindful how the masks of love
Transfigure all things to our face.
Ah, well! if I have lost to fate
The greatest boon that heaven disposes;
And closed upon myself the gate
To fields of bliss; 'tis on these roses,
On this intoxicating air,
The witching influence of the moon,
The poet's rhymes that went in tune
To the night's voices low and rare;
To all, that goes to make such hours
Like hasheesh-dreams. These did defy,
With contrary fate-compelling power,
The intended bliss;—'twas June, not I.
LINES TO A LUMP OF VIRGIN GOLD.
Dull, yellow, heavy, lustreless—
With less of radiance than the burnished tress,
Crumpled on Beauty's forehead: cloddish, cold,
Kneaded together with the common mold!
Worn by sharp contact with the fretted edges
Of ancient drifts, or prisoned in deep ledges;
Hidden within some mountain's rugged breast
From man's desire and quest—
Would thou could'st speak and tell the mystery
That shrines thy history!
