s,--and by thy breast of snow,--
And by the buds thereof that have the flush
Of infant roses when they strive to blush,--
And by thy voice, melodious as a bell
That rings for prayer in God's high citadel,--
By all these things, and more than I can urge,
I charge thee, Sweet! to let me out of hell!

x.

Is it not Hell to live so far away
And not to touch thee,--not by night or day
To be partaker of one smile of thine,
Or one commingling of thy breath and mine,
Or one encounter of thine amorous mouth?
I dwell apart from thee, as north from south,
As east from western ways I dwell apart,
And taste the tears that quench not any drouth.

xi.

Why wouldst thou take the memory of a wrong
To be thy shadow all the summer long,
A thing to chide thee at the dead of night,
A thing to wake thee with the morning light
For self-upbraiding, while the wanton bird
Invests the welkin? Ah, by joy deferr'd,
By peace withheld from me,--do thou relent
And dower my life to-day with one love-word!

xii.

Wouldst thou, Cassandra-wise, oppress my soul
With more unrest, and Hebe-like, the bowl
Of festal comfort for a moment raise
To my poor lips, and then avert thy gaze?
Wouldst make me mad beyond the daily curse
Of thy displeasure, and in wrath disperse
That halcyon draught, that nectar of the mind,
Which is the theme I yearn to in my verse?

xiii.

Oh, by thy pity when so slight a thing
As some small bird is wounded in the wing,
Avert thy scorn, and grant me, from afar,
At least the right to love thee as a star,--
The right to turn to thee, the right to bow
To thy pure name and evermore, as now,
To own thy thraldom and to sing thereon,
In proud allegiance to mine earliest vow.

xiv.

It were abuse of power to frown again
When, all day long, I gloat upon the pain
Of pent-up hope, my joy and my distress,--
While the remembrance of a mute caress
Given to a rose,--a rose I pluck'd for thee,--
Seems as the withering of the world to me,
Because I am unlov'd of thee to-day
And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea.

xv.

I'll not believe that eyes so bright as thine
Were meant for malice in the summer-shine,
Or that a glance thereof, though changed to fire,
Could injure one whose spirit, like a lyre,
Has throbb'd to music of remember'd joys,--
The pride thereof, and all the tender poise
Of trust with trust,--the symphonies of grief
Made all mine own,--and Faith which never cloys.