LATE
LOVED—WELL LOVED.
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He
stood beside her in the dawn
(And she his Dawn and she
his Spring),
From her bright palm she fed her fawn,
Her swift eyes chased the
swallow’s wing:
Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast
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Shrill
silver calls to hound and dove:
Her young locks wove them with the blast.
To the flush’d, azure
shrine above, [Page 157]
The light boughs o’er her golden head
Toss’d em’rald
arm and blossom palm,
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The
perfume of their prayer was spread
On the sweet wind in breath
of balm “Dawn
of my heart,” he said, “O child,
Knit thy pure eyes a space
with mine:
O chrystal, child eyes, undefiled,
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Let
fair love leap from mine to thine!”
The Dawn is young,” she smiled and said,
“Too young for Love’s
dear joy and woe;
Too young to crown her careless head
With his ripe roses. Let
me go—
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Unquestion’d
for a longer space,
Perchance, when day is at
the flood,
In thy true palm I’ll gladly place
Love’s flower in its
rounding bud.
But now the day is all too young,
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The
Dawn and I are playmates still.”
She slipped the blossomed boughs among,
He stroke beyond the violet
hill.
Again they stand (Imperial noon
Lays her red sceptre on
the earth),
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Where
golden hangings make a gloom,
And far off lutes sing dreamy
mirth.
The peacocks cry to lily cloud,
From the white gloss of
balustrade:
Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud,
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Tall statues whitely strike
the shade,
And pulse in the dim quivering light
Until, most Galatea-wise—
[Page 158]
Each looks from base of malachite
With mystic life in limbs
and eyes.
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Her robe (a golden wave that rose,
And burst, and clung as
water clings
To her long curves) about her flows.
Each jewel on her white
breast sings
Its silent song of sun and fire.
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No
wheeling swallows smite the skies
And upward draw the faint desire,
Weaving is myst’ry
in her eyes.
In the white kisses of the tips
Of her long fingers lies
a rose,
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Snow-pale
beside her curving lips,
Red by her snowy breast
it glows.
“Noon of my soul,” he says, “behold!
The day is ripe, the rose
full blown,
Love stands in panoply of gold,
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To
Jovian height and strength now grown.
No infant he, a king he stands,
And pleads with thee for
love again.”
“Ah, yes!” she says, “in known
lands,
He kings it—lord of
subtlest pain;
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The
moon is full, the rose is fair—
Too fair! ’tis neither
white nor red:
“I know the rose that love should wear,
Must redden as the heart
had bled!
The moon is mellow bright, and I
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Am
happy in its perfect glow.
The slanting sun the rose may dye—
But for the sweet noon—let
me go.” [Page 159]
She parted—shimm’ring thro’ the
shade,
Bent the fair splendour
of her head:
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“Would
the rich noon were past,” he said,
Would the pale rose were
flush’d to red!”
Again. The noon is past and night
Binds on his brow the blood
red Mars—
Down dusky vineyards dies the fight,
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And
blazing hamlets slay the stars.
Shriek the shrill shells: the heated throats
Of thunderous canon burst—and
high
Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes:
The flame-dimm’d splendours
of the sky.
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He,
dying, lies beside his blade:
Clear smiling as a warrior
blest
With victory smiles, thro’ sinister shade
Gleams the White Cross upon
her breast.
“Soul of my soul, or is it night
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Or is it dawn or is it day?
I see no more nor dark nor light,
I hear no more the distant
fray.”
“’Tis Dawn,” she whispers: “Dawn
at last!
Bright flush’d with
love’s immortal glow
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For
me as thee, all earth is past!
Late loved—well loved,
now let us go!” [Page 160]
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