Gebir by Walter Savage Landor
page 46 of 66 (69%)
page 46 of 66 (69%)
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How gently would her languid arm recline!
How often have I seen her kiss a flower, And on cool mosses press her glowing cheek! Nor was the stranger free from pangs himself. Whether by spell imperfect, or while brewed The swelling herbs infected him with foam, Oft have the shepherds met him wandering Through unfrequented paths, oft overheard Deep groans, oft started from soliloquies Which they believe assuredly were meant For spirits who attended him unseen. But when from his illuded eyes retired That figure Fancy fondly chose to raise, He clasped the vacant air and stood and gazed; Then owning it was folly, strange to tell, Burst into peals of laughter at his woes. Next, when his passion had subsided, went Where from a cistern, green and ruined, oozed A little rill, soon lost; there gathered he Violets, and harebells of a sister bloom, Twining complacently their tender stems With plants of kindest pliability. These for a garland woven, for a crown He platted pithy rushes, and ere dusk The grass was whitened with their roots nipped off. These threw he, finished, in the little rill And stood surveying them with steady smile: But such a smile as that of Gebir bids To Comfort a defiance, to Despair A welcome, at whatever hour she please. |
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