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The garden stretches southward. In the She stood, a sight to make an old man

midst

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He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, 'Look! look!' Before he ceased I turn'd,

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,

That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,

And blown across the walk. One arm aloft

Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.

A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the

flowers

young.

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she,

a Rose

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd

Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air

Which brooded round about her :

'Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd,

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips

Less exquisite than thine.'

She look'd but all Suffused with blushes-neither selfpossess'd

Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,

Divided in a graceful quiet-paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist- Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her

Ah, happy shade-and still went waver

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lips

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer

came,

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statuelike,

In act to render thanks.

I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white

star

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.

So home we went, and all the livelong way

With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.

'Now,' said he, will you climb the top A word could bring the colour to my

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dew;

You cannot fail but work in hues to dim A thought would fill my eyes with happy
The Titianic Flora. Will you match
My Juliet? you, not you,-the Master,

Love,

A more ideal Artist he than all.'

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,

Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er,

And shaping faithful record of the glance

Love trebled life within me, and with

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That graced the giving--such a noise of And each in passing touch'd with some new grace

life

Swarm'd in the golden present, such a Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day,

voice

Call'd to me from the years to come, and Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought

such

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.

And all that night I heard the watchman peal

The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

an hour

For Eustace, when I heard his deep 'I will,'

Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold

From thence thro' all the worlds: but I

rose up

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, Full of his bliss, and following her dark

O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,
Distilling odours on me as they went
To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir
to all,

Made this night thus.

squall nor storm

Henceforward

eyes

Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing

there.

There sat we down upon a garden

mound,

Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, Could keep me from that Eden where Between us, in the circle of his arms

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Served in the weeping elm; and more The bells; we listen'd; with the time

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We spoke of other things; we coursed about

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells

The subject most at heart, more near Of that which came between, more sweet

than each,

and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling In whispers, like the whispers of the

round

The central wish, until we settled there.
Then, in that time and place, I spoke

to her,

leaves

That tremble round a nightingale-in sighs

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter

ance,

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell

Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own,
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift,
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; Of difference, reconcilement, pledges
And in that time and place she answer'd

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Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,

And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, Be wise not easily forgiven

Are those, who setting wide the doors that bar

given,

And vows, where there was never need of vows,

And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;

Or while the balmy glooming, crescentlit,

Spread the light haze along the river

shores,

And in the hollows; or as once we met
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain
Night slid down one long stream of
sighing wind,

And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.
But this whole hour your eyes have

been intent

On that veil'd picture-veil'd, for what it holds

May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul;

Make thine heart ready with thine eyes:
the time

The secret bridal chambers of the heart,
Let in the day.' Here, then, my words Is come to raise the veil.

have end.

Behold her there,

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And often thought, 'I'll make them man And broke away. The more he look'd

and wife.'

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

at her

The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

But

The

Dora bore them meekly. Then

before

month was out he left his father's house,

Then there came a day And hired himself to work within the

When Allan call'd his son, and said,

'My son :

fields;

And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and
wed

A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing,

Allan call'd

I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die:
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and But if you speak with him that was my

he died

His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well;

son,

In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred Or change a word with her he calls his His daughter Dora: take her for your

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wife,

My home is none of yours. My will is law.'

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,

'It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!'

And days went on, and there was born a boy

Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, To William; then distresses came on him;

and said:

And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,

Heart-broken, and his father help'd him

not.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took

But Dora stored what little she could save, The child once more, and sat upon the And sent it them by stealth, nor did they

know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and
thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

'I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years

So full a harvest let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'

And Dora took the child, and went her

way

Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies

grew.

mound;

And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing

here?'

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child!'

'And did I not,' said Allan, did I not Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again : 'Do with me as you will, but take the child,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!'

And Allan said, 'I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you

dared

To sight it. Well-for I will take the boy;

But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud

And

struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell

Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his At Dora's feet.

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She bow'd upon her

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And the boy's cry came to her from the

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And the sun fell, and all the land was And all the things that had been. She

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