And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest As still as a brooding dove. That orbéd maiden, with white fire laden, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when, with never a stain, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. STANZAS, WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright; Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light; The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The city's voice itself is soft, like solitude's. I see the deep's untrampled floor The lightning of the noontide ocean Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, The sage in meditation found, Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one Whom men love not-and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. |