Poems (Craik)/A Sketch
For works with similar titles, see A Sketch.
A SKETCH.
"Emelie, that fayrer was to seene Than is the lilye on hys stalke grene. . . . .Uprose the sua and uprose Emelie."
OST thou thus love me, O thou beautiful? So beautiful, that by thy side I seem Like a great dusky cloud beside a star: Yet thou creep'st o'er its edges, and it rests On its lone path, the slow deep-hearted cloud— Then opes a rift and lets thee enter in; And with thy beauty shining on its breast, Feels no more its own blackness—thou art fair. Dost thou thus love me, O thou all beloved, In whose large store the very meanest coin Would out-buy my whole wealth? Yet here thou comest Like a kind heiress from her purple and down Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep, But goes forth to the stranger at her gate—The beggared stranger at her beauteous gate—And clothes and feeds; scarce blest till she has blest.
Dost thou thus love me, thou pure of heart, Whose very looks are prayers? What couldst thou see In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood's side, To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand, Saying, "It is so clear!"—And lo, erelong Its blackness caught the shimmer of thy wings, Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless palm, Its depths grew still that there thy form might rise.
O beautiful! well-beloved! O rich In all that makes my need! I lay me down I' the shadow of thy love, and feel no pain. The cloud floats on, thee glittering on its breast, The beggar wears thy purple as his own: The noisome waves, made calm, creep to thy feet Rejoicing that they yet can image thee, And beyond thee, God's heaven, thick-sown with stars.