FROM THE LATTICE.
Let it content thee that I call thee dear—Thou'rt wise and great, and others name thee so.From me, what gentler tribute wouldst thou knowThan the slight hand, upon thy shoulder laid,And the full heart, high throbbing, not afraid.
No, not afraid—of manly stature thou,Of power compact, and temper fervor-tried,—Yet I, a weakling, in thine armour hide,Or, sick beyond the medicine of Art,Hang on the healthful pulses of thine heart.
In waking dreams I see thine outstretched armsThat conquer night and distance for my sake,Like the brave swimmer who was wont to breakThe crystals of the deep in shivering light,To bless his Ladye with his radiant sight.
