Words for the Hour/From the Lattice
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.
There is a sense in which I call thee mine—Not as possession runs in Youth's hot blood;But in the helpful, self-renunciant moodOf Aspiration, daring, hand in hand,Tasks that in mystical conjunction stand.
Have I not been too thoughtlessly surprisedInto this mood, so near akin to loving?I hold myself to vexed and fond reproving;Saying, wert thou then so eager to impart,Thou couldst not hide one secret in thy heart?
There is a dead, immortal maiden speaksResponsive, from the legendary tombThat treasures, incorrupt, her bridal bloom:"If I could wish back the advantage ta'en,'Twere to be kind, and give it him again."