TO HELEN. I saw thee once-once only-years ago : I must not say how many--but not many. A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnightWas it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven !-oh, God! (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!) All-al! expired save thee-save less than thou: I saw but them--they were the world to me. I saw but them-saw only them for hours Saw only them until the moon went down. Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep- But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, |