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She looked on that gate of marble clear,
For it was filled with sculptures rarest,
Of winged shapes, whose legions range
And as she looked, still lovelier grew
Of his own mind did there endure
After the touch, whose power had braided
She looked, the flames were dim, the flood
Winding through hills in solitude;
Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver,
And their fair limbs to float in motion,
And their lips moved; one seemed to speak,
The statues gave a joyous scream,
The dizzy flight of that phantom pale
Of her dark eyes the dream did creep,
Perchance were death indeed!
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn
Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;
Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like
odour it is yet,
And from thy touch like fire doth leap.
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!
A breathless awe, like the swift change
The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
Beyond the mighty moons that wane
Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.
Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings, The blood and life within those snowy fingers
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick — The blood is listening in my frame,
And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
My heart is quivering like a flame;
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies.
I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy
Flows on, and fills all things with melody.—
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.
Now 'tis the breath of summer night,
Which when the starry waters sleep,
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright,
Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight.